"Please do."
"Take him to the guard-house and treat him as a prisoner of the second class until you hear from me again," said the governor to the guard, speaking in Russian.
And William Barnwell was marched away by them with a somewhat lighter heart.
The governor of Siberia sat meditating for some time after being left alone.
He had been a schoolmate of Paul Mastowix, and well remembered that even as a boy his chief characteristic was hypocrisy, and even in after years he had many times suspected the loyalty of the man, and was not at all surprised to learn that he was an active Nihilist behind a mask of loyalty.
And it was so strange that the innocent cause of his sudden downfall should now come under his charge. The fact gave him an interest in the young man which he would not otherwise have had, for he evidently believed his story.
So he set to work to think of a place where he could put him until such time as he could make sure regarding him, and after consulting with the superintendent, he concluded to put him into the general reception-room, to act as an assistant in receiving new convicts sent to Siberia.
And the following day he was installed there. In the meantime, however his wounds had been dressed by one of the surgeons–a rare condescension to a prisoner.
It was a strange place, but there was little to do, save when a new batch of prisoners arrived; and as he had already gone through with the prisoner part of the business, the place after all did not seem so strange to him.
There were altogether about a dozen men belonging to this department, and for the most part they were exiles for life, or long terms, who had become blunted and reconciled-men whose hopes and ambitions were gone, and who only lived because they could not die–men whose time had not yet come.