He held in his hand a basin containing soup and some black bread, which he placed upon the floor without deigning to bestow a word upon me.
As he turned to leave I rose and, clutching his arm, addressed him in French.
Turning the light full upon my face, he took a couple of paces backward, fearing perhaps that I was about to attack him.
“Why am I here?” I asked. “Tell me, what is the crime I am accused of?”
He regarded me for a moment in surprise, answering:
“How should I know?”
“But surely you are aware who brought me here?”
“The gorodovoi, I suppose,” he grunted savagely.
“And what is this detestable place called?” I asked.
“The Fortress; the prison from which no man has ever been known to escape.”