"But who is the convict?" Mr. Lemke asked the guide, with low voice.
"It is Number 114!" the guide replied, laconically.
"This I see," answered the visitor; "but what are the man's antecedents? To what family does he belong?"
"He is a count," replied the guide; "a well-known conspirator. More, I regret to say, I cannot tell you about Number 114!"
The visitor felt as if he were stifled in the grave-like atmosphere—as if his chest were pressed in by a demoniacal nightmare. He hastily asked his guide to return with him to the upper world. Meeting there the commander of the military establishment, he was obligingly asked by that officer—
"Well, what impression did our penal establishment make upon you?"
Mr. Lemke stiffly bowing in silence, the officer seemed to take this as a kind of satisfied assent, and went on—
"Very industrious people, the men below; are they not?"
"But with what feelings," Mr. Lemke answered, "must these unfortunates look forward to the day of rest after the week's toil!"
"Rest!" said the officer; "convicts must always labour. There is no rest for them. They are condemned to perpetual forced labour; and he who once enters the mine never leaves it!"