ally one day the warden shouted through the casement window as he
passed rapidly:

"You've let your chance slip by, you fool! We've found somebody else."

"The devil take you! Hang yourself!" snarled Tsiganok, and he stopped
dreaming of the execution.

But toward the end, the nearer he approached the time, the weight of the
fragments of his broken images became unbearable. Tsiganok now felt
like standing still, like spreading his legs and standing--but a whirling
current of thoughts carried him away and there was nothing at which
he could clutch--everything about him swam. And his sleep also became
uneasy. Dreams even more violent than his thoughts appeared--new dreams,
solid, heavy, like wooden painted blocks. And it was no longer like a
current, but like an endless fall to an endless depth, a whirling flight
through the whole visible world of colors.

When Tsiganok was free he had worn only a pair of dashing mustaches, but
in the prison a short, black, bristly beard grew on his face and it made
him look fearsome, insane. At times Tsiganok really lost his senses
and whirled absurdly about in the cell, still tapping upon the rough,
plastered walls nervously. And he drank water like a horse.

At times toward evening when they lit the lamp, Tsiganok would stand on
all fours in the middle of his cell and would howl the quivering howl
of a wolf. He was peculiarly serious while doing it, and would howl as
though he were performing an important and indispensable act. He would
fill his chest with air and then exhale it, slowly in a prolonged
tremulous howl, and, cocking his eyes, would listen intently as the
sound issued forth. And the very quiver in his voice seemed in a manner
intentional. He did not scream wildly, but drew out each note carefully
in that mournful wail full of untold sorrow and terror.

Then he would suddenly break off howling and for several minutes would
remain silent, still standing on all fours. Then suddenly he would
mutter softly, staring at the ground:

"My darlings, my sweethearts!... My darlings, my sweethearts! have
pity.... My darlings!... My sweethearts!"

And it seemed again as if he were listening intently to his own voice.
As he said each word he would listen.

Then he would jump up and for a whole hour would curse continually.

He cursed picturesquely, shouting and rolling his blood-shot eyes.

"If you hang me--hang me!" and he would burst out cursing again.

And the sentinel, in