es with his
comrade, and felt the lock of his gun. The other did the same. And all
the way to the prison the soldiers felt that they were not walking
but flying through the air--as if hypnotized by the prisoner, they felt
neither the ground beneath their feet, nor the passage of time, nor
themselves.

Mishka Tsiganok, like Yanson, had had to spend seventeen days in prison
before his execution. And all seventeen days passed as though they were
one day--they were bound up in one inextinguishable thought of escape, of
freedom, of life. The restlessness of Tsiganok, which was now repressed
by the walls and the bars and the dead window through which nothing
could be seen, turned all its fury upon himself and burned his soul
like coals scattered upon boards. As though he were in a drunken vapor,
bright but incomplete images swarmed upon him, failing and then becoming
confused, and then again rushing through his mind in an unrestrainable
blinding whirlwind--and all were bent toward escape, toward liberty,
toward life. With his nostrils expanded, like those of a horse, Tsiganok
smelt the air for hours long--it seemed to him that he could smell the
odor of hemp, of the smoke of fire--the colorless and biting smell of
burning. Now he whirled about in the room like a top, touching the
walls, tapping them nervously with his fingers from time to time, taking
aim, boring the ceiling with his gaze, filing the prison bars. By his
restlessness, he had tired out the soldiers who watched him through the
little window, and who, several times, in despair, had threatened to
shoot. Tsiganok would retort, coarsely and derisively, and the quarrel
would end peacefully because the dispute would soon turn into boorish,
unoffending abuse, after which shooting would have seemed absurd and
impossible.

Tsiganok slept during the nights soundly, without stirring, in
unchanging yet live motionlessness, like a wire spring in temporary
inactivity. But as soon as he arose, he immediately commenced to walk,
to plan, to grope about. His hands were always dry and hot, but his
heart at times would suddenly grow cold, as if a cake of unmelting ice
had been placed upon his chest, sending a slight, dry shiver through his
whole body. At such times, Tsiganok, always dark in complexion, would
turn black, assuming the shade of bluish cast-iron. And he acquired a
curious habit; as though he had eaten too much of something sickeningly
sweet, he kept licking his lips,