Ivan, it is bitter cold. Do not go out—into the night—
To Africa. The moon will be making golden streaks upon the water. A rose will be blooming in our garden—his eyes were vacant.
Then it was not his arm he had given for Russia—it was—
A cry pierced the cold air.
The weight of a dead body resounded.
I wonder what that was, Ivan mused—
Which is the shortest way to the Cathedral——
These Arab streets are so steep—