There was rifle-practice going on, puff after puff, down in the moat. Further along, on the green, some soldiers were being drilled, and now and again a trumpet signal sounded out on the still morning air.
Under a guard of overseers a little band of fettered prisoners was being conducted, with a clanking echo at every step, along the ramparts from their work towards the inner building of the convict prison.
At a hole in the wall the last of the prisoners slackened his pace a little. He cast a lingering glance through the opening.
The fjord lay shining blue beneath, with its many white sails and a steamer leaving a thick trail of smoke behind it on the water.
He drew a deep breath, his nostrils expanded, and there were signs of great agitation in his broad face.
The others were already five or six steps in advance, and the overseer began to roar at Number 66, exclaiming morosely:
"You'd give something to be able to fly out now, Nikolai!"
"I think that's the way we're all made!" he answered quickly.
"Then you should try and behave so as to get a remission."
Nikolai shook his head bitterly; a gleam shot from his grey eyes.