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He lost consciousness; it seemed strange to him that he didn't

remember how he got into the street. It was late evening. The

twilight had fallen and the full moon was shining more and more

brightly; but there was a peculiar breathlessness in the air.

There were crowds of people in the street; workmen and business

people were making their way home; other people had come out for

a walk; there was a smell of mortar, dust and stagnant water.

Raskolnikov walked along, mournful and anxious; he was distinctly

aware of having come out with a purpose, of having to do

something in a hurry, but what it was he had forgotten. Suddenly

he stood still and saw a man standing on the other side of the

street, beckoning to him. He crossed over to him, but at once the

man turned and walked away with his head hanging, as though he

had made no sign to him. "Stay, did he really beckon?"

Raskolnikov wondered, but he tried to overtake him.