The sky began to lighten and a new dew fell on a new dawn, and when the sunrise had extended its rapturous flames the sun rose—only then they parted.
Elisaveta returned to her room. But she could not sleep. She went into Elena’s room. Elena had only just awakened. Elisaveta lay down at her side under the bed-cover, and told her about her great love, her great joy. Elena rejoiced and laughed and kissed her sister without end.
Then Elisaveta put on her morning dress, and went to her father—to tell him about her joy, her happiness.
As for Trirodov, oppressed by morning fatigue, he walked home across the moist grass—and his soul was filled with perplexity and dread.
Later in the day he drove to the Rameyevs. He brought as a gift to Elisaveta a photograph he had taken of his first wife—upon her nude body was a bronze belt, its ends coming down to the knees being joined up in the front; upon her dark hair was a narrow round strip of gold. A slender, graceful body—a melancholy smile—intense dark eyes.
“Father knows,” said Elisaveta. “Father is glad. Let us go to him.”
When Elisaveta and Trirodov were once more alone, a dark thought came into Elisaveta’s mind. She became pensively sad, and asked:
“What of the sleeper in the grave?”
“He has awakened,” replied Trirodov. “He’s in my house. We’ve dug up his grave just in time to save his mother from having any qualms of conscience.”
“What do you mean?”