Tchuikòv and I were now taken to the guard-room, which was close to the prison. Our arrival was notified; and soon there appeared, accompanied by some of the gendarmes, the governor of the prison, an officer of Cossacks named Bolshakov, a man who had been described to us by our comrades as respectable and humane.
We and our luggage were carefully searched. Of our clothes only our warm under-garments were left in our possession; everything else was to be taken to the wardrobe-room, except certain articles which were reserved that Commandant Nikolin might decide whether we should be permitted to retain possession of them.
“You need not put the fetters on again,” said the captain of the guard, Golubtsòv. “They are not necessary here.”
It was evening before we were ready to be taken on by the gendarmes to the prison—the goal of my long wanderings. Since my arrest in Freiburg twenty-two months had elapsed; I had travelled about 12,000 versts (nearly 8,000 miles), and I had visited more than a hundred different prisons.
“Guard, there!” cried our escort. A bolt flew back with a crash, and we stepped across the threshold.
MARTINOVSKY
