At length came my turn.
“Pavlov!” shouts the starosta.
“Here,” I answered, and, taking up my bag, I enter the audience chamber, and find myself in the presence of several important-looking functionaries, sitting at a big table covered with registers.
“Paul Pavlov?” says the presiding councillor, and then, after favoring me with a fugitive glance, he bends once more over his books.
“Yes, your nobleness,” I reply, doing my best to speak and look like a peasant prisoner.
“For what crime were you judged?”
“For burglary, your nobleness.”
“Are the effects given you by the Government all in order?”
“They are, your nobleness.”
“Two shirts, two pairs of drawers, woollen trousers, great coat, pelisse, a pair of boots, leg irons?” enumerated the councillor, in a rapid, monotonous voice.