As soon as it was dawn, at about four o'clock, Bozevsky grew calm. Silence fell, and he slept.
The last station of our calvary was at Yalta, in the Crimea. We had gone there with a last up-flaming of hope. There were doctors there whom we had not yet consulted. There was Ivanoff and the world-famed Bobros.
“Continue the same treatment,” said the one.
“You must try never to move your head,” said the other.
That was all.
And to our other tortures was added the martyrdom of complete immobility.
“I want to turn my head,” Bozevsky would say in the night.
“No, dearest, no. I implore you—”
“I must. I must turn it from one side to the other. If I stay like this any longer I shall go mad!”