e ruin, where, in the midst of
splinters and scraps of wood, empty cartridges, and greasy
blood-streaks, lay three bodies: Lemsky, the first sacrifice; Burevsky
the assassin; and Vladimir Tronsky, a gentle, beardless boy. Empty
window-frames, splintered glass, and the ends of two ladders on the
sills, showed how an entrance had finally been effected; for old
Petrov's piano, now a mass of splintered wood and twisted wire, had
served its owner to the last.

There was some manifestation of surprise at Ivan's appearance; but he
was at once seized, handcuffed, and provided likewise with ankle-chains,
which permitted of a step of about eight inches. Then he was ranged
beside the other three, who noticed him in no way. And, though he knew
that the lack of recognition was for his own safety, it hurt,
unaccountably. The anger, the repulsion for these youths, was gone from
him now; and at heart he sided fanatically with them against their
captors. But it had not as yet occurred to him that his own plight was
far from pleasant.

There was an interminable, official wait. Little by little the crowd
outside was broken up by police, who feared a possible attempt to
liberate the prisoners when they should emerge. The golden light of the
May afternoon was fading softly into the silvery white night of the
north. A chill had crept into the air. Inward discomfort began to remind
Ivan that a day had passed since he had eaten substantially; for at noon
he had been too full of the prospective interview to linger over
luncheon. But there was small hope of speedy refreshment now; and the
hunger of prisoners is traditional.

By degrees, however, he drifted into one of his customary reveries,
which was hardly broken by the termination of their wait. Under a guard
of flattering size, the "politicals" were escorted down the silent,
empty stairs and into the street, where two ordinary carriages awaited
them. On emerging from the smoke-filled, blood-spattered house into the
clean, cold evening air, Sergius looked keenly about him for some sign
of deliverance or of sympathy. None came. The street was like that of an
abandoned city. On penalty of fine, every inhabitant was within doors.
One moment, and the world was shut away from the prisoners, perhaps for
the rest of their lives. The four of them were divided and placed two in
a carriage, facing two guards who sat with loaded pistols on their
knees: on the box an armed driver and a sergeant of pol