loudly. The officers gathered in a group, and swayed the bush, but the nightingale continued his song.
"I like his cheek!" they echoed admiringly. "He doesn't care a kopeck! The old rogue!"
Near their journey's end the path turned up the hill, and joined the road not far from the church enclosure; and there the officers, breathless from climbing, sat on the grass and smoked. Across the river gleamed a dull red light, and for want of a subject they argued the problem, whether it was a bonfire, a window-light, or something else. Riabovitch looked also at the light, and felt that it smiled and winked at him as if it knew about the kiss.
On reaching home, he undressed without delay, and lay upon his bed. He shared the cabin with Lobuitko and a Lieutenant Merzliakoff, a staid, silent little man, by repute highly cultivated, who took with him everywhere The Messenger of Europe, and read it eternally. Lobuitko undressed, tramped impatiently from corner to corner, and sent his servant for beer. Merzliakoff lay down, balanced the candle on his pillow, and hid his head behind The Messenger of Europe.
"Where is she now?" muttered Riabovitch, looking at the soot-blacked ceiling.
His neck still seemed anointed with oil, near his mouth still trembled the speck of pepperment chill. Through his brain twinkled successively the shoulders
