him, to ask what was going on in
Poland, and whether there were any hopes for her. Overcome by fatigue
and misery, he sat down upon a bench, where he remained sunk in the
gloomiest thoughts until accosted by a man of repulsive aspect,
branded on the face--the Russian practice with criminals of the worst
sort--who said abruptly, "Get up and go to work." It was the overseer,
himself a former convict. "O my God!" exclaims Piotrowski, "Thou alone
didst hear the bitter cry of my soul when this outcast first spoke to
me as my master."

[Illustration: CHARITY TO THE EXILE.]

Before going to work his irons were struck off, thanks to the instant
entreaties of his compatriots: he was then given a broom and shovel
and set to clear rubbish and filth off the roof of a large unfinished
building. On one side was a convict of the lowest order, with whom he
worked--on the other, the soldier who mounted guard over them. To
avoid the indignity of chastisement or reproof--indeed, to escape
notice altogether--he bent his whole force to his task, without
raising his head, or even his eyes, but the iron entered into his soul
and he wept.

The order of his days knew no variation. Rising at sunrise, the
convicts worked until eight o'clock, when they breakfasted, then until
their dinner at noon, and again from one o'clock until dark. His tasks
were fetching wood and water, splitting and piling logs, and
scavenger-work of all sorts: it was all out of doors and in every
extreme of the Siberian climate. His companions were all ruffians of a
desperate caste: burglary, highway robbery, rape, murder in every
degree, were common cases. One instance will suffice, and it is not
the worst: it was that of a young man, clerk of a wine-merchant in St.
Petersburg. He had a mistress whom he loved, but suspected of
infidelity; he took her and another girl into the country for a
holiday, and as they walked together in the fields fired a pistol at
his sweetheart's head: it only wounded her; the friend rushed away
shrieking for help; the victim fell on her knees and cried, "Forgive
me!" but he plunged a knife up to the hilt in her breast, and she fell
dead at his feet. He gave himself up to justice, received the knout
and was transported for life.

[Illustration: A RUSSIAN OTHELLO.]

The daily contact with ignorant, brutish men, made worse than brutes
by a life of hideous crime, was the worst feature in his wretched
existence. He had determined never to sub