Natalie tears the poor little letter apart in the middle. "Dress yourself!" she orders.
"Is there a fire?" asks Maschenka, frightened.
"No, but something has happened; we cannot stay in the hotel; do not ask."
Sleepy, but obedient, as a good child who has the most complete confidence in her mother, Maschenka sets about putting on the clothes daintily arranged on a chair near her little bed. Natalie helps her as well as her fingers, trembling with fever, will permit her, then wrapping head and shoulders in a lace scarf, she takes the child by the hand and hurries down the stairs.
"Is the princess going out?" asks the porter, who has not the heart to give the sister of Prince Assanow another title. "The weather is very threatening; shall I send for a carriage?"
Natalie takes no notice of him, pushes by him like a strange, inexplicable apparition.
* * * * * *
The stars are all extinguished, clouds cover the whole heaven, and close to the ground sighs a weary wind.
What is it in this confused, depressing sound of nature which chases the blood through her veins? In the midst of her excitement she hears the chromatic succession of tones--her breath stops--it is that inciting, musical poison, that now follows her with a longing complaint, a strange, alluring call--Asbeïn.
The wind rises, screams louder and more shrill, its sultry breath rages so powerfully against Natalie that she can scarcely proceed. One, two great water-drops splash in her face, then more. Pointed hailstones prick her between them; all drive her back--back.