"What can have happened," thought Pushkin, "that your guardian angel has not been gathering up your leaves this evening?"
"Go in-doors; you will soon know the reason," answered the roses.
He found no one upon the veranda. He opened the familiar tapestried door leading into Sophie's private apartments. There he learned why the rose leaves had not been gathered in that day.
Sophie lay upon her bed, white as death. Yesterday's soft bloom had all fled from her cheeks; they were almost transparent. The anguish she had undergone had left a transfigured expression upon her face. She was clasping Bethsaba's hand, who sat by her bedside, their fingers interlaced, in prayer.
Pushkin advanced cautiously, concealing his alarm. It is not well to let invalids see that their appearance inspires anxiety.
"What is this? Are you not well?"
"No, Aleko; I am dying. Do not be startled; it is past now. I have wrestled through it. You, too, will live through it."
"Oh, do not speak so, my love!" stammered Pushkin, kneeling by the bed, and covering the girl's white face with kisses. "It is but some slight feeling of illness that will pass off, as so often before. I will go and fetch the doctor."
"You will go nowhere! You will stay, when I tell you to. Do not oblige me to talk loudly, but obey. Think, were you to go and alarm Wylie with the news that I am on my death-bed, he would at once inform the Czar. The Czar just now is engaged upon a great work for the good of the country; he is arming for war. Millions depend upon his decisions for freedom, and a happier future in store. For this he needs all his powers. My father loves me so dearly, and depends so entirely upon me, that the news of this illness will completely unman him, and render him unable to carry on the work he has in hand; the thought of his dying daughter would deprive him of all energy and power. Is it not strange? In my lifetime scarce a dozen people have known of my existence; in my death shall millions upon millions curse the day of my birth and my death! So, I implore you, do not disquiet the Czar with the news of my extremity."
With passionate vehemence Pushkin answered: