And he thought about the devil, in whom he did not believe, and he looked round at the two windows where the fires were gleaming.  It seemed to him that out of those crimson eyes the devil himself was looking at him—­that unknown force that had created the mutual relation of the strong and the weak, that coarse blunder which one could never correct.  The strong must hinder the weak from living —­such was the law of Nature; but only in a newspaper article or in a school book was that intelligible and easily accepted.  In the hotchpotch which was everyday life, in the tangle of trivialities out of which human relations were woven, it was no longer a law, but a logical absurdity, when the strong and the weak were both equally victims of their mutual relations, unwillingly submitting to some directing force, unknown, standing outside life, apart from man.

So thought Korolyov, sitting on the planks, and little by little he was possessed by a feeling that this unknown and mysterious force was really close by and looking at him.  Meanwhile the east was growing paler, time passed rapidly; when there was not a soul anywhere near, as though everything were dead, the five buildings and their chimneys against the grey background of the dawn had a peculiar look—­not the same as by day; one forgot altogether that inside there were steam motors, electricity, telephones, and kept thinking of lake-dwellings, of the Stone Age, feeling the presence of a crude, unconscious force. . . .

And again there came the sound:  “Dair . . . dair . . . dair . . . dair . . .” twelve times.  Then there was stillness, stillness for half a minute, and at the other end of the yard there rang out.

“Drin . . . drin . . . drin. . . .”

“Horribly disagreeable,” thought Korolyov.

“Zhuk . . . zhuk . . .” there resounded from a third place, abruptly, sharply, as though with annoyance—­“Zhuk . . . zhuk. . . .”

And it took four minutes to strike twelve.  Then there was a hush; and again it seemed as though everything were dead.

Korolyov sat a little longer, then went to the house, but sat up for a good while longer.  In the adjoining rooms there was whispering, there was a sound of shuffling slippers and bare feet.

“Is she having another attack?” thought Korolyov.

He went out to have a look at the patient.  By now it was quite light in the rooms, and a faint glimmer of sunlight, piercing through the morning mist, quivered on the floor and on the wall of the drawing-room.  The door of Liza’s room was open, and she was sitting in a low chair beside her bed, with her hair down, wearing a dressing-gown and wrapped in a shawl.  The blinds were down on the windows.

“How do you feel?” asked Korolyov.

“Well, thank you.”

He touched her pulse, then straightened her hair, that had fallen over her forehead.

“You are not asleep,” he said.  “It’s beautiful weather outside.  It’s spring.  The nightingales are singing, and you sit in the dark and think of something.”