contradicted
each other--the bright day, the odor and taste of cabbage--and the fact
that two days later he must die. He did not think of anything. He did
not even count the hours, but simply stood in mute stupefaction before
this contradiction which tore his brain in two. And he became evenly
pale, neither white nor redder in parts, and appeared to be calm. Only
he ate nothing and ceased sleeping altogether. He sat all night long on
a stool, his legs crossed under him, in fright. Or he walked about in
his cell, quietly, stealthily, and sleepily looking about him on all
sides. His mouth was half-open all the time, as though from incessant
astonishment, and before taking the most ordinary thing into his
hands, he would examine it stupidly for a long time, and would take it
distrustfully.

When he became thus, the wardens as well as the sentinel who watched him
through the little window, ceased paying further attention to him. This
was the customary condition of prisoners, and reminded the wardens of
cattle being led to slaughter after a staggering blow.

"Now he is stunned, now he will feel nothing until his very death," said
the warden, looking at him with experienced eyes. "Ivan! Do you hear?
Ivan!"

"I must not be hanged," answered Yanson, in a dull voice, and his lower
jaw again drooped.

"You should not have committed murder. You would not be hanged then,"
answered the chief warden, a young but very important-looking man with
medals on his chest. "You committed murder, yet you do not want to be
hanged?"

"He wants to kill human beings without paying for it. Fool! fool!" said
another.

"I don't want to be hanged," said Yanson.

"Well, my friend, you may want it or not, that's your affair," replied
the chief warden indifferently. "Instead of talking nonsense, you had
better arrange your affairs. You still have something."

"He has nothing. One shirt and a suit of clothes. And a fur cap! A
sport!"

Thus time passed until Thursday. And on Thursday, at midnight a number
of people entered Yanson's cell, and one man, with shoulder-straps,
said:

"Well, get ready. We must go."

Yanson, moving slowly and drowsily as before, put on everything he
had and tied his muddy-red muffler about his neck. The man with
shoulder-straps, smoking a cigarette, said to some one while watching
Yanson dress:

"What a warm day this will be. Real spring."

Yanson's small eyes were closing; he seemed to be falling asleep, and h