Whilst the glimmer of daylight shone through the chink above I spent the time sitting engrossed in my own sad thoughts, or pacing the narrow cell for exercise. When it had faded I cast myself, restless and nervous, upon the heap of evil-smelling straw that served as bed, waiting patiently for the reappearance of the streak of grey light.
Those hours of awful silence and suspense I shall never forget.
Do what I might a terrible thought, a deep-rooted conviction, was ever with me, like a spectre haunting me face to face, frustrating every endeavour to close my eyes—it was that by Vera’s instrumentality I had been arrested and incarcerated in that foul dungeon.
The jailer, when he brought my daily ration of food, seldom spoke; but on one occasion I asked him:
“What is my sentence?”
“You know better than I,” he growled. “Indeed, I do not. Tell me; is it death?”
“No; the death sentence has been abolished by order of the Czar. Criminals are tortured to death instead of being killed instantaneously by hanging.”
“And is this the commencement of my torture?” I asked, glancing round the glistening walls, that looked black and unwholesome in the flickering lamplight.
“You may call it so, if you like,” he replied.
“Many prisoners would no doubt prefer the death sentence being passed upon them—but that the law now forbids.”