I repeated again and again to myself, in the silly, insane way that one does under the shock of some trouble, the words of the poem that I had read that afternoon: _Robinson Crusoe passa par Amsterdam (Je crois du moins qu'il y passa) en revenant De l'ile ombreuse et verte--ombreuse et verte--ombreuse et verte...._ It was dark, or at any rate, it seemed to me dark.

The weather was still and close; every sound echoed abominably through the silence.
When we arrived at Mittoevo I suddenly thought of Trenchard.

I had utterly forgotten him until that moment.

I got out of the trap and when Semyonov climbed out he put his hand on my arm.

I don't know why but that touched me so deeply and sharply that I felt, suddenly, as though in another instant I should lose my self-control.