threshold
the party came face to face with Murazov, and in Chichikov's heart
the circumstance revived a ray of hope. Wresting himself with almost
supernatural strength from the grasp of the escorting gendarmes, he
threw himself at the feet of the horror-stricken old man.

"Paul Ivanovitch," Murazov exclaimed, "what has happened to you?"

"Save me!" gasped Chichikov. "They are taking me away to prison and
death!"

Yet almost as he spoke the gendarmes seized him again, and hurried him
away so swiftly that Murazov's reply escaped his ears.

A damp, mouldy cell which reeked of soldiers' boots and leggings, an
unvarnished table, two sorry chairs, a window closed with a grating, a
crazy stove which, while letting the smoke emerge through its cracks,
gave out no heat--such was the den to which the man who had just begun
to taste the sweets of life, and to attract the attention of his fellows
with his new suit of smoked-grey-shot-with-flame-colour, now found
himself consigned. Not even necessaries had he been allowed to bring
away with him, nor his dispatch-box which contained all his booty. No,
with the indenture deeds of the dead souls, it was lodged in the hands
of a tchinovnik; and as he thought of these things Chichikov rolled
about the floor, and felt the cankerous worm of remorse seize upon and
gnaw at his heart, and bite its way ever further and further into that
heart so defenceless against its ravages, until he made up his mind
that, should he have to suffer another twenty-four hours of this misery,
there would no longer be a Chichikov in the world. Yet over him, as over
every one, there hung poised the All-Saving Hand; and, an hour after his
arrival at the prison, the doors of the gaol opened to admit Murazov.

Compared with poor Chichikov's sense of relief when the old man entered
his cell, even the pleasure experienced by a thirsty, dusty traveller
when he is given a drink of clear spring water to cool his dry, parched
throat fades into insignificance.

"Ah, my deliverer!" he cried as he rose from the floor, where he had
been grovelling in heartrending paroxysms of grief. Seizing the old
man's hand, he kissed it and pressed it to his bosom. Then, bursting
into tears, he added: "God Himself will reward you for having come to
visit an unfortunate wretch!"

Murazov looked at him sorrowfully, and said no more than "Ah, Paul
Ivanovitch, Paul Ivanovitch! What has happened?"

"What has happened?" cried Chichikov.