The wood all at
once grew still and dumb; it seemed as though it were deserted. The
air grew cold, and the river became locked in ice. The twilight was
slow and lingering, its deepening shadows turning the snow and ice on
the river to a keen, frosty blue.
Through the nights rang the loud, strange, fierce bellowing of the
elks as they mated; the walls shook, and the hills re-echoed with
their terrible roar.
Marina was with child in the autumn.
One night she woke before dawn. The room was stifling from the heat
of the stove, and she could smell the bear. There was a faint glimmer
of dawn, and the dark walls showed the window frames in a wan blue
outline. Somewhere close by an old elk was bellowing: you could tell
it was old by the hoarse, hissing notes of its hollow cries.
Marina sat up in bed. Her head swam, and she felt nauseated. The bear
lay beside her; he was already awake and was watching her. His eyes
shone with quiet, greenish lights; from outside, the thin crepuscular
light crept into the room through little crevices.
Again Marina felt the nausea, and her head swam; the lights in
Makar's eyes were re-enkindled in Marina's soul into a great,
overwhelming joy that made her body quiver with emotion . . . Her
heart beat like a snared bird--all was wavering and misty, like a
summer morn.
She rose from her bed of bear-skin furs, and naked, with swift,
awkward, uncertain steps, went in to Demid.
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