And Foma,
staring at the water, felt as though he really were petrified. In
the water something black, surrounded with splashes, was floating
toward him.
Rather instinctively than consciously, Foma threw himself with
his chest on the beams of the raft, and stretched out his hands,
his head hanging down over the water. Several incredibly long
seconds passed. Cold, wet arms clasped his neck and dark eyes
flashed before him. Then he understood that it was Sasha.
The dull horror, which had suddenly seized him, vanished,
replaced now by wild, rebellious joy. Having dragged the woman
out of the water, he grasped her by the waist, clasped her to his
breast, and, not knowing what to say to her, he stared into her
eyes with astonishment. She smiled at him caressingly.
"I am cold," said Sasha, softly, and quivered in every limb.
Foma laughed gaily at the sound of her voice, lifted her into his
arms and quickly, almost running, dashed across the rafts to the
shore. She was wet and cold, but her breathing was hot, it burned
Foma's cheek and filled his breast with wild joy.
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