Dasha—no it was not the leader's whistle—it was an inward voice—no one else could hear its piercing, agonizing sound—only the depth of her very being knew—a call—Russia—the land of her fathers that she had deserted.
Cossacks riding in the Steppes—
She dropped her bow and moved trance-like from the hall—
Russia——
II
Dasha Ivanovna was once more in the land of her forefathers. Already she had walked in familiar streets, had seen familiar buildings. Alone—something within her did not need the outside world. Not lonely therefor. And a strange kindling happiness in her soul—a sense of triumph over her former Nihilistic self.
She saw no friends—the ones of former days—Nihilists. They were perhaps hiding in foreign lands—or were in the darker seclusion of some Siberian Prison. But there rose no longing for these friends, no wish at all for them.
No longer was she Dasha Ivanovna Tortsov the Nihilist—the free thinker—
Peace had come to her—she wanted Peace for others—
No longer a desire to see those in power killed—only the dark forests and running waters, the wild flowers in the woods.