request would be concerning the political prisoner who is
going to Siberia with this detachment."

"Is that so?" said the general.

"He is very sick--he is a dying man. And he will probably be left here
in the hospital; for this reason one of the female prisoners would
like to remain with him."

"Is she a relative of his?"

"No. But she wishes to marry him, if it will allow her to stay with
him."

The general looked sharply at Nekhludoff from his shining eyes, and,
smoking continually, he kept silence, as if wishing to confound his
companion.

When Nekhludoff had finished he took a book from the table, and
frequently wetting the fingers with which he turned the leaves, he
lighted on the chapter treating of marriage and perused it.

"What's her sentence?" he asked, lifting his eyes from the book.

"Hers? Hard labor."

"If this is the case, the sentence cannot be changed by marriage."

"But----"

"I beg your pardon! If a free man would marry her she would have to
serve her sentence all the same. Whose sentence is harder, his or
hers?"

"Both are sentenced to hard labor."

"So they are quits," the general said, laughing. "An equal share for
both of them. He may be left here on account of his sickness," he
continued, "and, of course, everything will be done to ameliorate his
condition, but she, even if she should marry him, cannot remain here.
Anyhow, I will think it over. What are their names? Write them down
here."

Nekhludoff did as he was asked.

"And this I cannot do either," said the general, concerning his
request to see the patient. "Of course I don't suspect you, but you
are interested in them and in others. You have money, and the people
here are corrupt. How, then, is it possible for me to watch a person
who is five thousand miles distant from me? There he is king, as I am
here," and he began to laugh. "You have surely seen the political
prisoners. You have surely given them money," he added, smiling.
"Isn't it so?"

"Yes, it is true."

"I understand that you must act in this way. You want to see the
political prisoner, and you all sorrow for him, and the soldier on
guard will surely take money, because he has a family, and his salary
amounts to something less than nothing; he cannot afford to refuse. I
would do the same were I in yours or his place. But, being situated as
I am now, I cannot permit myself to disobey one iota of the law, for
the very reason that I, too, am no more than a m