Kolia hurries away; at the door his mother calls him back once more.
"Not without a farewell, my brave boy," she says, and kisses him. "God bless you!"
Then he rushes away down the stairs, to fetch the doctor--there is haste.
No, there is no more haste--the attack is short--only a couple of strange shudders--then the invalid grows calm in Lensky's arms.
"How wonderfully the trees bloom--" murmurs the dying one. "It grows dark--give me your hand--do not grieve--my poor Genius----"
Suddenly her eyes take on a peculiarly longing expression. A last time the Asbeïn tones glide through her soul, but no longer an inciting, alluring call--but as something elevating, holy. She hears the tones quite high and distinct, as if they vibrated down to her from Heaven, resounding strangely in a sublime, calm harmony that is no longer the devil's succession of tones, that is the music of the spheres.
"Boris," she murmurs, and raising her hand, points upward, "listen ..."
The hand sinks slowly, slowly--when, a little later, the physician enters she is dead. A wonderful smile lies on her countenance, the smile of one set free.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1]: When the Devil, banished from heaven, resolved on the temptation of mankind, he loved to make use of music which had been made known to him as a heavenly privilege when he still was a member of the eternal hosts. But the Almighty deprived him of his memory, so he could remember but a single strain, and this mysterious, bewitching strain is still called in Arabia "The Devil's Strain--Asbeïn."--Arabian Legends.