his co-accused were his
fellow-prisoners: they were confined in another part of the fortress,
and he but once caught a glimpse of one of them--so changed that he
hardly recognized him. His neighbors on the corridor were common
criminals. The president of the committee offered him the use of a
library, but he only asked for a Bible, "with which," he says, "I was
no longer alone." His greatest suffering arose from the nervous
irritability caused by the unremitting watch of the sentinel at his
door, which drove him almost frantic. The sensation of being spied at
every instant, in every action, of meeting this relentless,
irresponsive gaze on waking, of encountering it at each minute of the
day, was maddening. From daybreak he longed for the night, which
should deliver him from the sight. Sometimes, beside himself, he would
suddenly put his own face close to the grating and stare into the
tormenting eyes to force them to divert their gaze for a moment,
laughing like a savage when he succeeded. He was in this feverish
condition when called to his last examination. He perceived at once,
from the solemnity of all present, that the crisis had come. His
sentence was pronounced: death, commuted by Prince Bibikoff's
intercession to hard labor for life in Siberia. He was degraded from
the nobility, to which order, like half the inhabitants of Poland, he
belonged, and condemned to make the journey in chains. Without being
taken back to his cell, he was at once put into irons, the same rusty,
galling ones he had worn already, and placed in a _kibitka_, or
traveling-carriage, between two armed guards. The gates of the
fortress closed behind him, and before him opened the road to Siberia.

[Illustration: OUTSTARING THE GUARD.]

His destination was about two thousand miles distant. The incidents of
the journey were few and much of the same character. Charity and
sympathy were shown him by people of every class. Travelers of
distinction, especially ladies, pursued him with offers of assistance
and money, which he would not accept. The only gifts which he did not
refuse were the food and drink brought him by the peasants where they
stopped to change horses: wherever there was a halt the good people
plied him with tea, brandy and simple dainties, which he gratefully
accepted. At one station a man in the uniform of the Russian civil
service timidly offered him a parcel wrapped in a silk handkerchief,
saying, "Accept this from my saint."