Were they buried here--under the snow? Ah! she must fight against this
horrible lethargy.
It was a strange picture. The rough hut room with its skins and
antlers; the fair, civilized woman, delicate and dainty in her soft
silk blouse, sitting there with the grim Cossack pistol at her
head--and opposite her, still as marble, the conquering savage man,
handsome and splendid in his picturesque uniform; and just the dull
glow of the stove and the one oil lamp, and outside the moaning wind
and the snow.
Presently Tamara's elbow slipped and the pistol jerked forward. In a
second the Prince had sprung into an alert position, but she
straightened herself, and put it back in its place, and he relaxed the
tension, and once more reclined on the couch.
And now there floated through Tamara's confused brain the thought that
perhaps it would be better to shoot in any case--shoot and have done
with it. But the instinct of her youth stopped her--suicide was a sin,
and while she did not reason, the habit of this belief kept its hold
upon her.
So an hour passed in silence, then the agonizing certainty came upon
her that there must be an end. Her arm had grown numb.
Strange lights seemed to flash before her eyes--Yes,--surely--that was
Gritzko coming toward her--!
She gave a gasping cry and tried to pull the trigger, but it was
stiff, her fingers had gone to sleep and refused to obey her.
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