“Alexis, Alexis, what’s the matter with you?” Peter looked closely at him. “You should drink less.”
“Whether I drink or not, die I must! Better, then, drink and die! For you also it will be better if I die; it will save you killing me,” and again he grinned, quite like a fool, and suddenly began singing in a low, scarcely audible voice, which seemed to come from a distance:—
A maiden, I will wander
Through the fields of peace.
And there blue flowers I’ll gather,
For the blue flowers are his:
And coming back towards the river,
Into a wreath my spoil I’ll twine,
And throw this little wreath of mine
To the stream, remembering my lover.