Natasha puts one end of the door-chain to a little hook in the door. Then she opens the door partly and looks out. There stands the messenger in his uniform, with a metal plate in his cap. He hands her the telegram.
“Sign here, miss.”
The grey-white, dry paper trembles in Natasha’s hands. Natasha feels a sudden tug at her heart. She speaks incoherently:
“What is it? Oh my God! Sign, did you say?”
She runs to the table. Her hands tremble. She has managed somehow to scrawl her family name “Ozoreva,” the pen hesitating and scratching upon the grey paper.
“Here is the signature.”
Across the little door-chain she thrusts the signed paper and a tip into the hand of the messenger. Then she bangs the door to after him. Now she is in front of the lamp. What can it be?
Tearing the seal open she reads. Terrible words. Such simple, yet such incomprehensible words. Because they are about Boris.
“Boris has shot ——. Arrested with comrades. Military trial to-morrow. Death sentence threatened.”