It was a town truly
beleaguered as towns are in dreams. The uncanny awe with which I moved
across the bridge was increased when the man with the women turned
towards me, and I saw that he was--or seemed to be--that same grave
bearded peasant whom I had seen by the river, whom Henry had seen in the
Cathedral, who remained with one, as passing strangers sometimes do,
like a symbol or a message or a threat.
He stood, with the Nevski behind him, calm and grave, and even it seemed
a little amused, watching me as I crossed. I said to Bohun, "Did you
ever see that fellow before?"
Bohun turned and looked.
"No," he said.
"Don't you remember? The man that first day in the Kazan?"
"They're all alike," Bohun said. "One can't tell...."
"Oh, come on," said the merchant. "Let's get to the Astoria."
We started down the Moika, past that faded picture-shop where there are
always large moth-eaten canvases of cornfields under the moon and
Russian weddings and Italian lakes. We had got very nearly to the little
street with the wooden hoardings when the merchant gripped my arm.
"What's that?" he gulped.
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