A piece of behaviour on the part of Leo, too, filled me with dismay.  He had been lying quietly at his master’s feet for some time, when he suddenly arose, sat upright, and lifting his nose in air, uttered a most prolonged and desolate howl.  Anything more thoroughly heartbroken and despairing than that cry I have never heard.  After he had concluded it, the poor animal seemed ashamed of what he had done, and creeping meekly along, with drooping head and tail, he kissed his master’s hand, then mine, and lastly Zara’s.  Finally, he went into a distant corner and lay down again, as if his feelings were altogether too much for him.

“Is he ill?” I asked pityingly.

“I think not,” replied Heliobas.  “The weather is peculiar to-day—­ close, and almost thunderous; dogs are very susceptible to such changes.”

At that moment the page entered bearing a silver salver, on which lay a letter, which he handed to his master and immediately retired.

Heliobas opened and read it.

“Ivan regrets he cannot dine with us to-day,” he said, glancing at his sister; “he is otherwise engaged.  He says, however, that he hopes to have the pleasure of looking in during the latter part of the evening.”

Zara inclined her head gently, and made no other reply.

A few seconds afterwards we rose from table, and Zara, linking her arm through mine, said: 

“I want to have a talk with you while we can be alone.  Come to my room.”

We went upstairs together, followed by the wise yet doleful Leo, who seemed determined not to let his mistress out of his sight.  When we arrived at our destination, Zara pushed me gently into an easy-chair, and seated herself in another one opposite.

“I am going to ask a favour of you,” she began; “because I know you will do anything to please me or Casimir.  Is it not so?”

I assured her she might rely upon my observing; with the truest fidelity any request of hers, small or great.

She thanked me and resumed: 

“You know I have been working secretly in my studio for some time past.  I have been occupied in the execution of two designs—­one is finished, and is intended as a gift to Casimir.  The other”—­she hesitated—­“is incomplete.  It is the colossal figure which was veiled when you first came in to see my little statue of ‘Evening’.  I made an attempt beyond my powers—­in short, I cannot carry out the idea to my satisfaction.  Now, dear, pay great attention to what I say.  I have reason to believe that I shall be compelled to take a sudden journey—­promise me that when I am gone you will see that unfinished statue completely destroyed—­utterly demolished.”

I could not answer her for a minute or two, I was so surprised by her words.

“Going on a journey, Zara?” I said.  “Well, if you are, I suppose you will soon return home again; and why should your statue be destroyed in the meantime?  You may yet be able to bring it to final perfection.”