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Wilderling had been shooting them out of his window.... The officer listened very politely, but when I had finished he only shook his head. That was their affair he said. "It was then that I realised Wilderling. He was standing quite close to me. He had obviously been struggling a bit, because his shirt was all torn, and you could see his chest.
Then, in quite another tone, he remarked to me: "By the way, Ivan Andreievitch, what about your friend Mr. Lawrence? He's in a position of very considerable danger where he is with Wilderling. They tell me Wilderling may be murdered at any moment." Some force stronger than my will drove me to look at Vera. I saw that Nicolai Leontievitch also was looking at her.
They're all right, but there just are moments in life when they simply don't count at all.... Vera was in danger Well, that was all that mattered. "The officer said something to Wilderling. I heard Wilderling answer: "You're rebels against His Majesty.... I wish I'd shot more of you!" Fine old boy, you know, whatever way you look at it. "They moved him forward then.
They had found Wilderling.... They had dragged him out.... Lawrence was beside him.... They were condemned together.... Oh! love had come to her at last in a wild, surging flood! Of all the steps she had been led until at last, only half an hour before in that scene with Nina, the curtains had been flung aside and the whole view revealed to her.
"I know I wanted to run like hell to Vera to see that she was safe. "But I didn't. I walked off as slowly as anything. It was awful. They'd been so good to me, and yet I wasn't thinking of Wilderling at all...." Markovitch on that same afternoon came back to the flat early.
Wilderling smelt of gunpowder, and he was breathing hard as though he had been running desperately. He quivered when Lawrence touched him. "Go away!" he said, "you mustn't come here.... I'll get them yet I tell you I'll get them yet I tell you I'll get them Let them dare... Chiens... Chiens..." He jerked his rifle away from the window and began, with trembling fingers, to load it again.
"He was officer?" "Yes." "In the British Army?" "Yes. He had fought for two years in France." "He had been lodging with Baron Wilderling?" "Yes. Ever since he came to Russia." The officer nodded his head. They knew about him, had full information. A friend of his, a Mr. Boris Grogoff, had spoken of him.
It seemed strange to me as I dressed that evening. I do not know how long it was since I had put on a dinner-jacket. With the exception of that one other visit to Baron Wilderling this seemed to be my one link with the old world, and it was curious to feel its fascination, its air of comfort and order and cleanliness, its courtesy and discipline.
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