Slowly we passed through the great iron gates, and turning, crossed the Troitskoi Bridge, our escort of mounted Cossacks cracking their long whips, and with lanterns tied to their lance-points examining the road continually, in search of any letters which might be dropped. It was a weird, dismal procession, as we trudged on through the streets made sloppy by the melting snow, and the clanking of chains, the cracking of whips, the shouts of the soldiers, and the rumbling of the springless carts in the rear for those who might fall ill by the way, awoke the echoes of the silent thoroughfares. A few belated pleasure-seekers, some in fancy dress, who were evidently returning from a ball, stopped to watch us pass, but no one was allowed to come near us, for the Cossacks warned them off. In this way we passed across the slumbering city and out upon the broad, bleak highway on our journey eastward to the Ourals. It commenced to rain in torrents, and soon all of us were wet and uncomfortable, but through the long night we marched onward in dogged silence. Conversation was forbidden, and those who had spoken had felt the thong of the escort's whip about his shoulders. The convict to whom I was chained I recognised as the guide who had conducted me over the Winter Palace. What was his crime I knew not, but he plodded on, with a settled look of terror on his face, and the sighs that frequently escaped him plainly showed what were his feelings at being exiled from his native land. His was not the face of a criminal, but rather that of one who had been unjustly condemned, as I had been. Our wet clothes clung to us as we walked, our feet splashed through great pools at every step, and the icy wind that blew across the wide level highway chilled our very bones, greatly adding to our discomfort. We must have walked six hours, for as the day dawned, cloudy and grey, we saw in the distance the wooden houses of Jjora, and half an hour later were drawn up in a line in the open space before the little church. Here our fetters were removed; but in the meantime the news had spread through the village that a convict convoy was on the march, and the inhabitants, taking compassion upon us, crowded round with steaming tureens of _tschi_, piles of new bread, and jugs of _vodki_. They were not allowed to approach us, however, and were compelled to set their offerings at the roadside and retire. The pity felt for Siberian exiles is universal, and even the Cossacks seemed to have some sympathy for us poor wretches, as they allowed us to partake freely of what the kind-hearted peasants offered. I was almost exhausted by the long tramp, and ate ravenously. As soon as we had appeased our hunger, we were marched inside the church to attend a parting mass and hear a brief sermon.