Was I mad, as the turnkey believed? I was almost convinced I must be, the events of the past few hours seemed so unreal--like the impression of some horrible dream. I had been sentenced, the jailer said. Sentenced for what? I had wronged no man on earth that I was aware of, neither had I done an evil action willingly. What was my offence, and what was my sentence? For days I lived with this one thought, crushed by its terrible weight, frozen by its ghastly presence. Not days, but years ago it seemed, since I was a man like any other, with an intellect young and fresh, losing itself in a pleasant world of fantasy, with buoyant hopes for the future; an existence full of life and light, gaiety, and unalloyed happiness, with naught to trouble me save the realisation of my fond dream of marrying Vera and dwelling with her in perfect felicity. Joyous and free had been my thoughts, therefore I was free also. Alas! those aerial castles, those blissful illusions, had been cruelly dispelled, for I was free no longer. I was a criminal. CHAPTER TWELVE. A SUBTERRANEAN DRAMA. With my wrists in bonds of iron, and my soul fettered by one idea-- horrible, implacable--the days passed: I kept no count of them. Whilst the glimmer of daylight shone through the chink above I spent the time sitting engrossed in my own sad thoughts, or pacing the narrow cell for exercise. When it had faded I cast myself, restless and nervous, upon the heap of evil-smelling straw that served as bed, waiting patiently for the reappearance of the streak of grey light. Those hours of awful silence and suspense I shall never forget. Do what I might a terrible thought, a deep-rooted conviction, was ever with me, like a spectre haunting me face to face, frustrating every endeavour to close my eyes--it was that by Vera's instrumentality I had been arrested and incarcerated in that foul dungeon. The jailer, when he brought my daily ration of food, seldom spoke; but on one occasion I asked him: "What is my sentence?" "You know better than I," he growled. "Indeed, I do not. Tell me; is it death?" "No; the death sentence has been abolished by order of the Czar. Criminals are tortured to death instead of being killed instantaneously by hanging." "And is this the commencement of my torture?" I asked, glancing round the glistening walls, that looked black and unwholesome in the flickering lamplight. "You may call it so, if you like," he replied. "Many prisoners would no doubt prefer the death sentence being passed upon them--but that the law now forbids." "Shall I never leave this horrible place?" I asked. "Shall I never again see the blessed light of day?" "Yes," he muttered, ominously, "you will leave here--some day--never to return." I said no more. I knew he meant that when I left the prison I should be dead.