n than the idea of the execution
itself. Death was something inevitable and even unimportant, of which
it was not worth while to think; but for a man in prison, before his
execution, to be left without tobacco--that was altogether unbearable.
She recalled and went over in her mind all the pleasant details of their
life together, and then she grew faint with fear when she pictured to
herself the meeting between Sergey and his parents.

She felt particularly sorry for Musya. It had long seemed to her that
Musya loved Werner, and although this was not a fact, she still dreamed
of something good and bright for both of them. When she had been free,
Musya had worn a silver ring, on which was the design of a skull, bones,
and a crown of thorns about them. Tanya Kovalchuk had often looked upon
the ring as a symbol of doom, and she would ask Musya, now in jest, now
in earnest, to remove the ring.

"Make me a present of it," she had begged.

"No, Tanechka, I will not give it to you. But perhaps you will soon have
another ring upon your finger."

For some reason or other they all in turn had thought that she would
doubtless soon marry, and this had offended her--she wanted no husband.
And recalling these half-jesting conversations with Musya, and the fact
that now Musya was actually condemned to death, she choked with tears
in her maternal pity. And each time the clock struck she raised
her tear-stained face and listened--how were they in the other cells
receiving this drawn-out, persistent call of death?

But Musya was happy.

With her hands folded behind her back, dressed in a prisoner's garb
which was much too large for her, and which made her look very much like
a man--like a stripling dressed in some one else's clothes--she paced her
cell evenly and tirelessly. The sleeves of the coat were too long for
her, and she turned them up, and her thin, almost childish, emaciated
hands peeped out of the wide holes like a beautiful flower out of a
coarse earthen jug. The rough material of the coat rubbed her thin white
neck, and sometimes Musya would free her throat with both hands and
would cautiously feel the spot where the irritated skin was red and
smarted.

Musya paced the cell, and, blushing in agitation, she imagined that she
was justifying herself before the people. She tried to justify herself
for the fact that she, who was so young, so insignificant, who had done
so little, and who was not at all a heroine, was yet to