unknown face. She laughed, she waved her hand to him . . . and still he could not move.
She laughed once more, and quickly retreated, merrily nodding her head, on which there was a crimson wreath of tiny roses.
Aratov tried to cry out, tried to throw off this awful nightmare. . . .
Suddenly all was darkness around . . . and the woman came back to him. But this was not the unknown statue ... it was Clara. She stood before him, crossed her arms, and sternly and intently looked at him. Her lips were tightly pressed together, but Aratov fancied he heard the words, 'If you want to know what I am, come over here!'
'Where?' he asked.
'Here!' he heard the wailing answer. 'Here!'
Aratov woke up.
He sat up in bed, lighted the candle that stood on the little table by his bedside — but did not get up — and sat a long while, chill all over, slowly looking about him. It seemed to him as if something had happened to him since he went to bed; that something had taken possession of him . . . something was in control of him. 'But is it possible?' he murmured unconsciously. 'Does such a power really exist?'
He could not stay in his bed. He quickly
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