Somehow I felt afraid⁠—a sort of horror had come upon me⁠—my imagination had been overexcited by the evil dream which I had experienced, and a feeling of oppression was crushing my heart.⁠ ⁠… I leapt from the chair, and involuntarily uttered a cry⁠—a cry wrung from me by the terrible, torturing sensation that was upon me. Presently the door opened, and Pokrovski entered.

I remember that I was in his arms when I recovered my senses. Carefully seating me on a bench, he handed me a glass of water, and then asked me a few questions⁠—though how I answered them I do not know. “You yourself are ill,” he said as he took my hand. “You yourself are very ill. You are feverish, and I can see that you are knocking yourself out through your neglect of your own health. Take a little rest. Lie down and go to sleep. Yes, lie down, lie down,” he continued without giving me time to protest. Indeed, fatigue had so exhausted my strength that my eyes were closing from very weakness. So I lay down on the bench with the intention of sleeping for half an hour only; but, I slept till morning. Pokrovski then awoke me, saying that it was time for me to go and give my mother her medicine.