“The finest I know, anyhow,” replied Ivanoff for Sanine.
Lida, who had been singing loudly, suddenly stopped, looking vexed.
“They don’t seem in any hurry,” she said.
“Why should they hurry?” replied Ivanoff, “It is a great mistake to do anything in a hurry.”
“And Sina, I suppose she is the heroine _sans peur et sans reproche_?” said Lida ironically.
Tanaroff’s thoughts were too much for him at this juncture. He burst out laughing, and then looked thoroughly sheepish. Lida, her hands on her hips and swaying gracefully to and fro, turned to look at him.
“I dare say they are enjoying themselves,” she observed with a shrug of the shoulders.
“Hark!” said Riasantzeff, as the sound of firing reached them.
“What’s the meaning of it?” cried Lialia, as she nervously clung to her lover’s arm.
“Don’t be frightened! If it is a wolf, at this time of year they are tame, and would never attack two people.” Thus Riasantzeff sought to reassure her, while secretly annoyed at Yourii’s childish freak.
“Tomfoolery!” growled Schafroff, who was equally vexed.
“They are coming, they are coming! Don’t worry!” said Lida contemptuously.
A sound of footsteps could now be heard, and soon Sina and Yourii emerged from the darkness.
Yourii blew out the light and smiled uneasily, as he was not sure of his reception. He was covered with yellow clay, and Sina’s shoulder bore traces of this, for she had rubbed against the side of the cavern.
“It was quite interesting in there,” said Yourii half apologetically. “Only the passage does not lead very far. It has been filled up. We saw some rotten planks lying about.”
“Did you hear us fire?” asked Sina, and her eyes sparkled.
“My friends,” shouted Ivanoff, interrupting, “we have drunk all the beer, and our souls are abundantly refreshed. Let us be going.”
By the time that the boat reached a broader part of the stream the moon had already risen. It was a strangely calm, clear evening. Above and below, in the heaven as in the river, the golden stars gleamed. It was as if the boat was suspended between two fathomless spaces. The dark woods at the edge of the stream had a look of mystery. A nightingale sang, and all listened in silence, not believing it to be a bird, but rather some joyous dreamer in the gloom. Removing her large straw hat, Sina Karsavina now began to sing a Russian popular air, sweet and sad like all Russian songs. Her voice, a high soprano, though not powerful, was sympathetic in quality.