masters here."

Godfrey learnt that every effort had been made by the authorities to
discover how Koshkin had obtained the knife, but without success. He
must have bribed one of the guards to fetch it in for him, but there was
no tracing which had been concerned in the matter. All the prisoners
had been searched and their bags examined, but no other weapons had
been discovered. Godfrey did not hear a single word of pity for Koshkin,
or of regret at his death. Indifference for others was one of the
leading characteristics of the prisoners. Although living so long
together they seldom appeared to form a friendship of any kind; each man
lived for and thought only of his own lot. Godfrey observed that it was
very seldom that a prisoner shared any dainty he had purchased with
another, and it was only when three or four had clubbed together to get
in a ham, a young sucking pig, or some vodka that they were seen to
partake of it together.

Some of the prisoners, indeed, scarcely ever exchanged a word with the
rest, but moved about in moody silence paying no attention to what was
going on around them. Some again were always quarrelling, and seemed to
take a delight in stirring up others by giving them unpleasant
nicknames, or by turning them into ridicule.

"I am glad indeed, Mikail," Godfrey said, as he lay down beside the
starosta that night, "that you were not seriously hurt. I only heard
to-day that you had a wife waiting for you outside."

"Yes, it is true," Mikail replied. "I never talk of her. I dare not even
let myself think of her, it seems too great a happiness to be true; and
something may occur, one never knows. Ah, Ivan, if it had not been for
you what news would have been taken to her! Think of it, after her long
journey out here; after waiting ten years for me, to hear that it was
useless. I tremble like a leaf when I think of it. That night I lay
awake all night and cried like a young child, not for myself, you know,
but for her. She has taken a cottage already, and is furnishing it with
her savings. She is allowed to write to me, you know, once every month.
At first it was every three months. What happiness it was to me when my
first five years was up and she could write once a month! Do you think I
shall know her? She will have changed much. I tell myself that always;
and I--I have changed much too, but she will know me, I am sure she will
know me. I tremble now at the thought of our meeting, Ivan; but I ou