“No,” said Natalia, stopping short before me, “perhaps not.”  She sat down and leaned her head on her hand thoughtfully.  The silence lasted for several minutes.  During that time I remembered the evening of his atrocious confession—­the plaint she seemed to have hardly enough life left in her to utter, “It is impossible to be more unhappy....”  The recollection would have given me a shudder if I had not been lost in wonder at her force and her tranquillity.  There was no longer any Natalia Haldin, because she had completely ceased to think of herself.  It was a great victory, a characteristically Russian exploit in self-suppression.

She recalled me to myself by getting up suddenly like a person who has come to a decision.  She walked to the writing-table, now stripped of all the small objects associated with her by daily use—­a mere piece of dead furniture; but it contained something living, still, since she took from a recess a flat parcel which she brought to me.

“It’s a book,” she said rather abruptly.  “It was sent to me wrapped up in my veil.  I told you nothing at the time, but now I’ve decided to leave it with you.  I have the right to do that.  It was sent to me.  It is mine.  You may preserve it, or destroy it after you have read it.  And while you read it, please remember that I was defenceless.  And that he..”

“Defenceless!” I repeated, surprised, looking hard at her.

“You’ll find the very word written there,” she whispered.  “Well, it’s true!  I was defenceless—­but perhaps you were able to see that for yourself.”  Her face coloured, then went deadly pale.  “In justice to the man, I want you to remember that I was.  Oh, I was, I was!”

I rose, a little shakily.

“I am not likely to forget anything you say at this our last parting.”

Her hand fell into mine.

“It’s difficult to believe that it must be good-bye with us.”

She returned my pressure and our hands separated.

“Yes.  I am leaving here to-morrow.  My eyes are open at last and my hands are free now.  As for the rest—­which of us can fail to hear the stifled cry of our great distress?  It may be nothing to the world.”

“The world is more conscious of your discordant voices,” I said.  “It is the way of the world.”

“Yes.”  She bowed her head in assent, and hesitated for a moment.  “I must own to you that I shall never give up looking forward to the day when all discord shall be silenced.  Try to imagine its dawn!  The tempest of blows and of execrations is over; all is still; the new sun is rising, and the weary men united at last, taking count in their conscience of the ended contest, feel saddened by their victory, because so many ideas have perished for the triumph of one, so many beliefs have abandoned them without support.  They feel alone on the earth and gather close together.  Yes, there must be many bitter hours!  But at last the anguish of hearts shall be extinguished in love.”