to the commission of inquiry appointed to try Pugatchef and his
accomplices.

No sooner had I arrived in Khasan than I was lodged in prison, and irons
were placed on my ankles. It was a bad beginning, but I was full of hope
and courage, and believed that I could easily explain my dealings with
Pugatchef.

The next day I was summoned to appear before the commission, and asked
how long I had been in Pugatchef's service.

I replied indignantly that I had never been in his service; and then
when I was asked how it was he had spared my life and given me a
safe-conduct pass I told the story of the guide in the snowstorm and the
hair-skin _touloup_.

Then came the question how was it I had left Orenburg, and gone straight
to the rebel camp?

I felt I could not bring in Marya's name, and expose her as a witness to
the cross-examination of the commission, and so I stammered and became
silent.

The officer of the guard then requested that I should be confronted with
my principal accuser, and Chvabrine was brought into court. A great
change had come over him. He was pale and thin, and his hair had already
turned grey. In a feeble but clear voice Chvabrine went through his
story against me; that I had been Pugatchef's spy in Orenburg, and that
after leaving that town I had done all I could to aid the rebels. I was
glad of one thing, some spark of feeling kept him from mentioning
Marya's name.

I told the judges I could only repeat my former statement that I was
entirely innocent of any part in the rebellion; and then I was taken
back to prison, and underwent no further examination.

Several weeks passed, and then my father was informed that the tzarina
had condescended to pardon his criminal son, and remit the capital
punishment, condemning him instead to exile for life in the heart of
Siberia.

The unexpected blow nearly killed my father. He had heard of my arrest,
and both Saveluetch and Marya had assured him of my complete innocence.
Now he broke out into bitter lament.

"What!" he kept on saying. "What! My son mixed up in the plots of
Pugatchef! Just God! What have I lived to see! The tzarina grants him
life, but does that make it easier for me to bear? It is not the
execution which is horrible. My ancestors have perished on the scaffold
for conscience sake; but that an officer should join with robbers and
felons! Shame on our race for ever!"

In vain my mother endeavoured to comfort him by talking of the injus