It was now night. The master of the house--the above-mentioned red-haired freckly-faced Jew--produced a thin mattress, covered with a mat, and stretched it for Boolba on a bench. Yankel lay on the floor on a similar mattress. The redhaired Jew drank a small cup of some infusion, took off his coat, and, after having presented in his stockings and slippers an appearance something like that of a chicken, went with his Jewess into a kind of closet. Two Jewish boys lay down on the floor near the closet, as if they had been puppies. But Tarass slept not; he remained motionless, drumming on the table with his fingers. He had his pipe in his mouth, and puffed away the smoke, which made the Jew sneeze in his slumbers, and bury his nose under his coverlet. Scarcely was the sky tinted by the first pale gleam of the morning dawn, when Tarass pushed Yankel with his foot. "Up, Jew! give me thy count's dress!" He was dressed in no time; he blackened his mustachios and eyebrows, put a small dark-coloured cap on his head--and none of his most intimate Cossacks could have recognised him. To look at him, he seemed to be not more than thirty-five years old. The flush of health was on his cheeks, and even the scars on his face gave an expression of authority to his features. The dress, adorned with gold, became him greatly. The city still slept. No trading chapman, basket in hand, had yet made his appearance in the town. Boolba and Yankel came to a building which bore great resemblance to a sitting heron. It was low, wide, bulky, black; and on one side rose, like a stork's neck, a long narrow turret, beyond the top of which the roof projected. This building served many and various purposes. Here were the barracks, the prison, and even the criminal courts. Our travellers entered the gate, and found themselves in a large hall, or, rather, in a covered yard. There were nearly a thousand men sleeping here together. Straight on, was a low door, before which were sitting two sentries, who were playing at a game which consisted in one of them slapping the other with two fingers on the palm of the hand. The sentries paid no attention to the new-comers, and only turned their heads when Yankel said to them, "It's we, your worships! you hear, it's we!" "Go!" said one of the sentries, opening the door with one hand, while he presented the other to receive the strokes of his comrade. They stepped into a dark narrow passage, which brought them to another hall like the first, receiving its light from a small window in the roof. "Who goes there?" cried several voices at once; and Tarass beheld a great number of soldiers, armed cap-a-pie. "We cannot let any one pass." "It's we!" cried Yank el; "by Heavens, your worships, it's we!" But nobody would listen to him. Fortunately, at this moment, a fat man approached, who, by his appearance, seemed to be the chief, for he used the most abusive language to the others.