vessel, and was now beyond the reach of human aid.[1] Ivan despatched a messenger for Pope Yefim—the only priest he knew who had not left the city—while he himself hastened to the side of the dying woman, to whom he thought his presence might be a comfort.
He was too late. The countess had sunk into a state of unconsciousness, and only faint occasional sighs showed that life lingered still. As he stood in the darkened room beside the motionless form, thoughts of death, at once more solemn and more true than any that had come to him before, stole into his heart. There was a sense of reality about this slow sinking of the powers of nature which he had not felt in any of the wild and stormy perils he had braved and was braving still. That living soul, that personal mind and will, but yesterday so pronounced and active, where was it? Whither was it going? Ivan did not know. With him all the future was mist and fog—"a land of darkness, as darkness itself." And for a moment his strong heart almost quailed as there swept over it those old yet ever new apprehensions and doubts, those
"Blank misgivings of a creature
Moving about in worlds not realized."
But this mood passed as quickly as it came. He dared not linger; every moment was of importance now. With one sad look of farewell he went his way, and was soon absorbed in preparations for the great and terrible sacrifice which was approaching so quickly.
He did not forget to send a messenger to the dwelling of Petrovitch to learn the latest tidings of the heroic old man; and was told that he had left the house, with his grandson Feodor, on the first intimation of the approach of the French.
The first regiment of Frenchmen who advanced that day along the great Smolensko road to the Gate of Triumph could
- ↑ Her persistence in remaining in the city and her death are historical.
