At last she approached the pistols, which Peter had not taken with him on his journey.
The portrait of her husband's first wife hung above the weapons and sadly needed dusting, for until now Maria had always shrunk from touching it.
To-day she summoned up her courage, stood opposite to it, and gazed steadily at the youthful features of the woman, with whom Peter had been happy.

She felt spellbound by the brown eyes that gazed at her from the pleasant face.
Yes, the woman up there looked happy, almost insolently happy.

How much more had Peter probably given to his first wife than to her?
This thought cut her to the heart, and without moving her lips she addressed a series of questions to the silent portrait, which still gazed steadily and serenely at her from its plain frame.
Once it seemed as if the full lips of the pictured face quivered, once that the eyes moved.

A chill ran through her veins, she began to be afraid, yet could not leave the portrait, and stood gazing upward with dilated eyes.
She did not stir, but her breath came quicker and quicker, and her eyes seemed to grow keener.
A shadow rested on the dead Eva's high forehead.

Had the artist intended to depict some oppressive anxiety, or was what she saw only dust, that had settled on the colors?
She pushed a chair towards the portrait and put her foot on the seat, pushing her dress away in doing so.