He suddenly opened his eyes, and his gaze wandered slowly from side to side until it rested on me. He moved his lips as if to speak, and I hastened to his pillow and bent over him.
He whispered, “Stay here.”
“Yes,” I said, and sat down beside him, taking his moist, chill hand between my own.
He repeated weakly: “Stay here. Do not go away.”
The Swedish doctor was washing his hands and talking in a low voice to Stahl. He turned to me and said:
“You must try not to agitate him. Do not let him speak or move his head.” Then he went out into the corridor with Stahl.
Mrs. Stahl and Vera sat mute and terror-stricken in a corner. I watched Bozevsky, with a deep, dull ache racking my heart. He seemed to be falling asleep. I felt his hand relax in mine and his short breathing became calmer and more regular.
But Stahl came in again, and Bozevsky opened his eyes.
Stahl approached the bedside and stood for a long while looking down at his friend. Then he turned to me. “A nurse is coming,” he said. “I will take you ladies home and then come back and pass the night with him.”
Take me home! How could I return home? How could I endure to meet Vassili again? At the mere thought of seeing him, who with a treacherous shot from behind had shattered this young existence, hatred and terror flamed up within me. No! I would not return home. Never again would I touch the hand of Vassili Tarnowsky.