It was sweet to me to think that Zinaida could not, anyway, fail to do justice to my courage, my heroism...' Others may seem better to her than I,' I mused, 'let them! But others only say what they would do, while I have done it.
And what more would I not do for her?' My fancy set to work.
I began picturing to myself how I would save her from the hands of enemies; how, covered with blood I would tear her by force from prison, and expire at her feet.
I remembered a picture hanging in our drawing-room – Malek-Adel bearing away Matilda – but at that point my attention was absorbed by the appearance of a speckled woodpecker who climbed busily up the slender stem of a birch-tree and peeped out uneasily from behind it, first to the right, then to the left, like a musician behind the bass-viol.
Then I sang 'Not the white snows', and passed from that to a song well known at that period: 'I await thee, when the wanton zephyr', then I began reading aloud Yermak's address to the stars from Homyakov's tragedy.
I made an attempt to compose something myself in a sentimental vein, and invented the line which was to conclude each verse: 'O Zinaida, Zinaida!' but could get no further with it.
Meanwhile it was getting on towards dinner-time.
I went down into the valley; a narrow sandy path winding through it led to the town.
I walked along this path...
The dull thud of horses' hoofs resounded behind me.