His Hour

Her little head, with its soft brown hair from which the fur cap had

fallen, lay helpless on his breast. The pathetic white face, with its

childish curves and long eyelashes, resting on her cheek, made no

movement. The faint, sweet scent of a great bunch of violets crushed in

her belt came up to him.

And as he fiercely bent to kiss her white, unconscious lips, suddenly

he drew back and all the savage exultation went out of him.

He gazed at her for a moment, and then carried her tenderly to the

couch and laid her down. She never stirred. Was she dead? Oh, God!

In frightful anguish he put his ear to her heart; it did not seem to

beat.

In wild fear he tore open her blouse and wrenched apart her fine

underclothing, the better to listen. Yes, now through only the bare

soft skin he heard a faint sound. Ah! saints in heaven! she was not

dead.

Then he took off her boots and rubbed her cold little silk-stockinged

feet, and her cold damp hands, and presently as he watched, it seemed

as if some color came back to her cheeks, and at last she gave a sigh

and moved her head without opening her eyes--and then he saw that she

was not unconscious now, but sleeping.

Then the bounds of all his mad passion burst, and as he knelt beside

the couch, great tears suffused his eyes and trickled down his cheeks.

"My Doushka! my love!" he whispered, brokenly. "Oh, God! and I would

have hurt you!"

He rose quickly, and going to the window opened the ventilator at the

top, picked up the pistol from the table and replaced it in his belt,

and then he knelt once more beside Tamara, and with deepest reverence

bent down and kissed her feet.

"Sleep, sleep, my sweet Princess," he said softly, and then crept

stealthily from the room.