Five minutes later she ceased to bruise her knuckles upon that locked, unyielding door.—What in the world was Ivan about?—Never, truly, had man slept through such noise as this!—And Ivan's sleep was notably light!
With a chill of premonition, she ran down the hall to call the men.
When at last Piotr, young Ivan, and Makár, working in a frenzy of dread, had torn the door from its hinges, Nathalie passed through, alone, into that inner room over which Ivan reigned no longer. She was the first to look upon his dead face, illumined by the candle-light—and by something more. It was also she—the one great love of his loveless life—who closed, at last, those staring, questioning eyes.