Konev it is—Konev of the well-remembered eyes. Even at this moment they are regarding me with puckered attention.
I throw around me a hasty glance. My own warder is dozing on a shady bench near the entrance. Two more warders are engaged in throwing dice. A fourth is superintending the pumping of water by two convicts, and superciliously marking time for their lever with the formula, "Mashkam, dashkam! Dashkam, mashkam!"
I move towards the wall.
"Is that you, Konev?" is my inquiry.
"It is," he mutters as he thrusts his head a little further through the grating. "Yes, Konev I am, but who you are I have not a notion."
"What are you here for?"
"For a matter of base coin, though, to be truthful, I am here accidentally, without genuine cause."
The warder rouses himself, and, with his keys jingling like a set of fetters, utters drowsily the command:
"Do not stand still. Also, move further from the wall. To approach it is forbidden."
"But it is so hot in the middle of the yard, sir!"