Looking at the monks, and seeing no sign of opposition on their part, the soldier turns the key; and as we push the door back on its rusty hinge, a young man, tall and soldier-like, with long black beard and curious eyes, springs up from a pallet; and snatching a coverlet, wraps the loose garment round his all but naked limbs.
"What is your name?" the visitor asks; going in at once, and taking him by the hand.
"Pushkin," he answers softly; "Adrian Pushkin."
"How long have you been confined at Solovetsk?"
"Three years; about three years."
"For what offense?"
He stares in wonder, with a wandering light in his eye that tells his secret in a flash.
"Have you been tried by any court?"
The officer interferes; the sentinel on guard is called; and we are huddled by the soldiers—doing what they are told—from the prisoner's cell.
"What has he done?" I ask the fathers, when the door is slammed upon the captive's face.