Our little window was
open and the sky beyond was a sort of very pale green, and against
this you could see a flush of colour rising and falling like the
opening and shutting of a door. Everything quite silent except the
Austrian cannon and a soldier, delirious, downstairs, singing.
The Forest was deep black, but you could see the soldiers' fires
gleaming here and there like beasts' eyes. Our room was almost dark
and I was very startled to find Semyonov sitting on his bed and
staring in front of him. He looked like a wooden figure sitting there,
and he didn't move as I came in. I'm glad that although I'm still
awkward and clumsy with him (as I am, and always will be, I suppose,
with every one) I'm not afraid of him any more. The room was so dark
that he looked like a shadow. I had intended to fetch something and go
away, but instead of that I sat down on my bed, feeling suddenly very
tired and lethargic.
"Well, Mr.," he said in the ironical voice he always uses to me.
(I would wish now to repeat if I can every word of our conversation.
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