universal happiness and a universal brotherhood;
and even here in prison, even this morning, within a few steps of an
assassinated comrade, I sought explanations, that is to say, excuses; I
thought of an accident, of a misunderstanding. Now, I hate. I hate with
all the strength of my soul this stupid and ferocious _regime_ whose
arbitrary authority puts the lives of thousands of defenceless human
beings at the mercy of any one of its mercenaries. I hate it, because of
the sufferings and the tears it has caused; for the obstacles it throws
in the way of my country's development; for the chains which it places
on thousands of bodies and thousands of souls; because of this thirst
for blood which is growing within me. Yes! I hate it, and if it sufficed
to will--if this tension of my entire being could resolve itself into
action--oh! there would at this instant be many heads forming a
_cortege_ to the bloody head of the comrade who has been so cowardly and
ferociously assassinated.

* * *

[Illustration: "REMOVED BEFORE OUR CHAINS WERE TAKEN OFF."]

Eight o'clock at night. Nadine, very ill, sleeps upon my bed, groaning
plaintively each time that an unconscious movement causes her to touch
her arms, whilst I, like all the other prisoners not invalided, remain
at my window. In spite of the silence of several months which has
imposed upon us, the conversation flags. We are too tired, and there are
too many sick amongst us; there are also the dead. Where are they now?
Removed before our chains were taken off, they will this night be buried
with other corpses of political prisoners, secretly hid away to rest by
the police in order to avoid any public manifestation on the part of
friends, or remarks on the part of the local population. These thoughts,
at intervals, awaken our anger, and then murmurs are heard. As the night
grows deeper, and the sounds of evening are lost in the mists, covering
the country as with a veil, our sick nerves become calmer, and our
hatred gives place to an immense and tender sadness. Then we talk of our
mothers, of the mother of Helena Q----, and of Ivanoff's mother, both of
whom are probably still in ignorance of the death of their children, and
are still waiting and hoping. And then we talk of the impression made
upon our parents and friends when the echoes of this terrible day reach
their ears.

Just as the rattle of drums announces that the gates of the fortress are
ab