Father Anthony bent to his ear and said something.
"It is impossible," answered the steward. "He is to take his punishment without a murmur."
Anthony shrugged his shoulders and turned toward me. His voice was low and warm:
"Submit, Matvei."
He conquered me with his two words and his caressing look. I bowed to the steward and to him, and then I asked the steward when I must go to the wood.
"In three days," he answered. "But these three days you must go to the dungeon—that's what."
If Anthony had not been there I certainly would have broken the steward's bones. But I took Anthony's words as a sign of the possibility to get near him, and for this I was ready to cut off my right arm—anything.
They sent me down to the dungeon. It was a hole underneath the office, in which it was impossible to stand or lie down; one had to sit. Straw was thrown on the floor, but it was wet from dampness. And it was quiet as a grave, not even mice were there; and such darkness that the hands disappeared. If you put your hands before your face they were not visible.
I sat there and was silent, and everything in me seemed poured from lead. I was heavy as stone, and cold as ice.
I clinched my teeth for I wished to hold back my thoughts; but they flamed up within me like coals and burned me. I could have bitten somebody, but there was no one to bite. I caught my hair with my hands, swayed back and forth like the tongue of a bell, and shrieked and raved and roared within: