Nine months later Markelov was tried. At the trial he was just as calm
as he had been at the governor's. He carried himself with dignity, but
was rather depressed. His habitual hardness had toned down somewhat, not
from any cowardice; a nobler element had been at work. He did not defend
himself, did not regret what he had done, blamed no one, and mentioned
no names. His emaciated face with the lustreless eyes retained but one
expression: submission to his fate and firmness. His brief, direct,
truthful answers aroused in his very judges a feeling akin to pity. Even
the peasants who had seized him and were giving evidence against
him shared this feeling and spoke of him as a good, simple-hearted
gentleman. But his guilt could not possibly be passed over; he could not
escape punishment, and he himself seemed to look upon it as his due. Of
his few accomplices, Mashurina disappeared for a time. Ostrodumov was
killed by a shopkeeper he was inciting to revolt, who had struck him
an "awkward" blow. Golushkin, in consideration of his penitence (he was
nearly frightened out of his wits), was let off lightly. Kisliakov was
kept under arrest for about a month, after which he was released and
even allowed to continue "galloping" from province of province. Nejdanov
died, Solomin was under suspicion, but for lack of sufficient evidence
was left in peace. (He did not, however, avoid trial and appeared when
wanted.) Mariana was not even mentioned; Paklin came off splendidly;
indeed no notice was taken of him.

A year and a half had gone by--it was the winter of 1870. In St.
Petersburg--the very same St. Petersburg where the chamberlain Sipiagin,
now a privy councillor, was beginning to play such an important part;
where his wife patronised the arts, gave musical evenings, and founded
charitable cook-shops; where Kollomietzev was considered one of the most
hopeful members of the ministerial department--a little man was limping
along one of the streets of the Vassily island, attired in a shabby coat
with a catskin collar. This was no other than our old friend Paklin.
He had changed a great deal since we last saw him. On his temples a few
strands of silvery hair peeped out from under his fur cap. A tall, stout
woman, closely muffled in a dark cloth coat, was coming towards him on
the pavement. Paklin looked at her indifferently and passed on. Suddenly
he stopped, threw up his arms as though struck by something, turned back
quickly, and ove