Yourii blew out the light and smiled uneasily, as he was not sure of his reception. He was covered with yellow clay, and Sina’s shoulder bore traces of this, for she had rubbed against the side of the cavern.
“Well?” asked Semenoff languidly.
“It was quite interesting in there,” said Yourii half apologetically. “Only the passage does not lead very far. It has been filled up. We saw some rotten planks lying about.”
“Did you hear us fire?” asked Sina, and her eyes sparkled.
“My friends,” shouted Ivanoff, interrupting, “we have drunk all the beer, and our souls are abundantly refreshed. Let us be going.”
By the time that the boat reached a broader part of the stream the moon had already risen. It was a strangely calm, clear evening. Above and below, in the heaven as in the river, the golden stars gleamed. It was as if the boat was suspended between two fathomless spaces. The dark woods at the edge of the stream had a look of mystery. A nightingale sang, and all listened in silence, not believing it to be a bird, but rather some joyous dreamer in the gloom. Removing her large straw hat, Sina Karsavina now began to sing a Russian popular air, sweet and sad like all Russian songs. Her voice, a high soprano, though not powerful, was sympathetic in quality.
Ivanoff muttered, “That’s sweet!” and Sanine exclaimed “Charming!” When she had finished they all clapped their hands and the sound was echoed strangely in the dark woods on either side.
“Sing something else, Sinotschka!” cried Lialia; “or, better still, recite one of your own poems.”
“So you’re a poetess, too?” asked Ivanoff. “How many gifts does the good God bestow upon his creatures!”
“Is that a bad thing?” asked Sina in confusion.