“Isn’t the town queer to-night?” said Bohun, suddenly stopping. (We were just at the entrance to the Mariensky Square.)
“Yes,” I said. “I think these days between the thaw and the white nights are in some ways the strangest of all. There seems to be so much going on that one can’t quite see.”
“Yes—over there—at the other end of the Square—there’s a kind of mist—a sort of water-mist. It comes from the Canal.”
“And do you see a figure like an old bent man with a red lantern? Do you see what I mean—that red light?”
“And those shadows on the further wall like riders passing with silver-tipped spears? Isn’t it...? There they go—ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen....”
“How still the Square is? Do you see those three windows all alight? Isn’t there a dance going on? Don’t you hear the music?”
“No, it’s the wind.”
“No, surely.... That’s a flute—and then violins. Listen! Those are fiddles for certain!”
“How still, how still it is!”
We stood and listened whilst the white mist gathered and grew over the cobbles. Certainly there was a strain of music, very faint and dim, threading through the air.