MICHAEL, feeling greatly disgusted by Markovin's cowardice, threw open the door boldly. The visitor, who was carefully wrapped up in a huge sheepskin coat, was no other than the friendly warder from the jail—Pafnutitch. "Why—why—why!" he stammered. "Who thought of seeing you here?" "Then you know me?" said Michael, in equal astonishment. "Of course I do," answered the warder; "it's part of our business to know folks again. You're the young cock-of-the-walk that crowed so loud and ready to thrust your head into Kovylsk Jail last spring, to have a look at my jail-birds. Your father's one of them now. A good man; oh, as good almost as Loukyan the saint! What do you say to trying a rig like that?" "Hush!" whispered Michael, pointing to the door of Markovin's bedroom. "Hush! It would kill him with fright. To see my father! Oh, I'm ready! When will it be?" "Now! To-night," answered Pafnutitch. "Oh, what luck I came here to-night! Our head men are all going to the governor's ball, and we intend to have a jolly night of it. But you shall see your little father first; only you must have a bag o' tools, or something—" "I have this," said Michael, throwing his well-filled sack over his shoulder. "That will do," agreed the warder; "and don't you speak if anybody speaks to you. They'll think you are Mitiushka, my sister's son by her first husband, but he was flogged once for talking to a Stundist, and now he won't answer anybody he doesn't know very well. His mother, Matriona, had two husbands—but there, I can't tell you all about it now. I must be at my post in an hour. Tell Markovin Petrovitch you are going out a little while on business, but don't mention me. Now, then, Nephew Mitiushka." Michael followed Pafnutitch through the streets, his heart beating high with courage. The wind was piercing, but he did not feel it. The stars glittered in the narrow strip of sky between the roofs of the houses; and he fancied they looked down on him like kindly eyes in heaven. Once again he had the strange sensation of feeling his mother near to him, walking unseen at his side, and telling him, without words, not to be afraid. When they reached the jail the gatekeeper, who was playing at cards with a comrade, admitted them, with scarcely a glance at Michael. The light from the lamp was dull, and the man held a good hand of cards, which he was eager to play. The small door constructed in the heavy gates, through which they passed, clanged behind them, and the strong bolts were shot back into their places. Michael felt already the depressing and stifling atmosphere of a prison. They went through long dark passages, and up two flights of stairs. On the topmost floor was a corridor, dimly lighted by one oil lamp at the head of the stairs. On each side were a number of little cells. Another warder met them half-way down this corridor, and gazed suspiciously at Michael.