The scene of the day’s toil was reached after a march of an hour—for it lay three miles from the settlement. Without delay the men were put to work under the keen eye of the overseer, while the Cossacks stacked their rifles and built fires, about which they gathered, stamping their feet and clapping their arms together, for the weather was bitterly cold and the snow was beginning to fall thickly from the leaden sky.
With pick and shovel the convicts delved into the stratum of clay and gravel beneath which lies the bed of gold bearing sand—sometimes at a depth of twenty feet. The frozen clods of earth were taken in charge by others, who loaded them on rude wheelbarrows and trundled them away. At a spot some little distance down the stream, a bed of sand, uncovered on the previous day, was being washed out in the wooden hoppers.
The biting cold compelled the men to work with more than their usual energy, and all were hungry when the time for the scanty noonday lunch arrived. They drew as close to the fires as the Cossacks would permit, and ate their bread and drank their weak tea, sitting on the snowy ground.
Sandoff found himself opposite a man who interested him strangely—a tall, slender fellow of about his own age, with dark hair, piercing black eyes, and an expression that was moody and even desperate, as though the burning remembrance of his wrongs was always taunting him.
Two nights before this man had been placed in the prison cell occupied by Sandoff and two others, having been transferred to Middle Kara from one of the lower settlements. He had maintained a dogged silence ever since, and Sandoff had more than once found the stranger’s eyes fixed upon him with a strange earnestness of gaze.
The man ate the last morsel of his bread and washed it down with his tea, glancing casually at Sandoff as he did so. Suddenly his face flushed and a tigerish look came into his eyes—a look of hatred and recognition. The Cossacks were some distance away, and before they could note what was going on, much less take any action, the fellow sprang to his feet and hurled himself on Sandoff, clutching his throat in a vicious grip.
“I know you, I know you,” he cried in passionate accents. “I can’t be mistaken. You are Inspector Sandoff. It was you, you traitorous dog, who deceived my sister and decoyed me from my hiding place!”
In an instant all was wild excitement. The convicts gathered eagerly about the scene of the struggle, but were speedily thrown aside by the guards, who tore the combatants roughly apart, the one senseless with rage, the other stunned and bewildered.
“Who are you?” demanded Sandoff in a troubled voice.
“You should easily guess,” replied the other bitterly; “but I will tell you my name. I am Felix Shamarin.”