Everywhere near and afar--and one could see in to the far distance, though the eye could not make out clearly much of what was seen--all was at peace; youthful, blossoming life seemed expressed in this deep peace.

Lavretsky's horse stepped out bravely, swaying evenly to right and left; its great black shadow moved along beside it.

There was something strangely sweet in the tramp of its hoofs, a strange charm in the ringing cry of the quails.
The stars were lost in a bright mist; the moon, not yet at the full, shone with steady brilliance; its light was shot in an azure stream over the sky, and fell in patches of smoky gold on the thin clouds as they drifted near.

The freshness of the air drew a slight moisture into the eyes, sweetly folded all the limbs, and flowed freely into the lungs.
Lavretsky rejoiced in it, and was glad at his own rejoicing.

"Come, we are still alive," he thought; "we have not been altogether destroyed by"-- he did not say--by whom or by what.