XLI
Through the twilight streets I hastened, and Naumoff followed, calling me by my name; but I did not answer him. Through the long Road of the Cross I hurried silently, and out through the Golden Gate, and on, down dusty solitary streets, past the Church of All Saints, until at last I stood before the cemetery where my mother is laid to rest.
“Where are we going?” asked Naumoff. “Why have you come here?”
But without answering him I threw a ruble to the gatekeeper and entered the silent pathways of the churchyard.
The sky was still light in the west, but the paths were gloomy in the shadow of willow and cypress trees. Hastening on between the double rows of flower-decked graves, and the monuments that gleamed whitely in the twilight, I reached my mother's tomb. I knelt and kissed the great marble cross that stands so heavily above her frail brow. And the thought of her lying there, so desolate and alone, abandoned to the rains and the winds and the darkness of long dreadful nights, struck terror to my heart.
“Speak to me, mother,” I whispered to her. “Tell me what I am to do. You who know all—all about the vow and little Tioka, and the terrible things that are in my life—tell me, mother, must Paul Kamarowsky die?”
My mother did not answer.
“Tell me, tell me, mother! Is he to die?” My mother was silent. But the evening breeze passed over the delicate flowers, the lilies and campanulas which cover her grave; and they all nodded their heads, saying: “Yes, yes, yes.”
“Did you see?” I whispered to Naumoff.