CHAPTER XIV.
THE FORLORN HOPE.
"Oh, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done
The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun,
For ever and for ever with those just souls and true;
And what is life that we should moan? why make we such ado?"
THE two young men wore out the short summer night in earnest talk. Neither thought of sleep; but Ivan was careful to provide a comfortable repast for Michael, and was by no means reluctant to share it. Very early in the morning they set out on foot for the merchants' quarter. The shades of night had brought no repose to the doomed city; hour after hour the living tide flowed on without pause or respite, and Ivan and Michael found it extremely diflicult to thread their way through the dense confused mass of vehicles and foot passengers that crowded every street.
At last they reached the dwelling of Petrovitch. The doors were all open. Unhindered and unannounced, they walked into the great hall. Here they found the whole family assembled. In the midst sat the patriarch, with silver hair and beard, and large, wide-open, sightless eyes. His face was as calm and almost as colourless as that of the dead; but its look expressed the steadfast high resolve of a "living soul," the heir of a deathless immortality.
All around that calm centre there was profound agitation. Women were weeping and wringing their hands; and those
