Michael sat beside him, stiff and weary in body, but with his mind in a tumult. This going into exile, on étape, was very different from what he had imagined. It had seemed beforehand a much lighter experience, mingled indeed with some elements of adventures and pleasures in the long march. But to be pent up in railway waggons like cattle trucks, and be conveyed like cattle from place to place, was quite a different thing. The cries of little children, the wailing of babies, the sobs and prayers and curses of women during the long journey, had entered like iron into his very soul. Hunger and thirst, plank beds and bitter cold, he had been prepared for, but not for the degradation and the untold misery and the wickedness that surrounded him. His father was no longer chained to the brutal murderer who had been his comrade on the march from Kovylsk, for that man's family had abandoned him. But there were men and boys in the kamera so evil and depraved that they did not open their lips without uttering words so vile as to appal him. How could they hinder the girls and children from hearing the common conversation around them? He thanked God again that Velia was not there. There were women there of the lowest class, degraded to the deepest corruption, not worthy of the name of women. In the corner near Katerina and Tatiania, a young lady sat on the edge of the nari, gazing round with terrified eyes. She was a political prisoner, going into exile as a suspected person. Children of all ages crawled about the filthy floor. There was still light enough to see them—unwashed, weary little ones, with matted hair hanging about their begrimed faces. There had been no chance of washing for any of them; and some of these children were too much accustomed to such a condition to be consciously affected by it. But the Stundists were used to cleanliness, and they suffered from enforced defilement. They felt degraded and injured by it. Clava's sweet little face was soiled with dust and tears. Michael shook himself as if in a rage, as he felt the indescribable offensiveness of the surroundings. Was it possible the archbishop could think he was doing God service by dooming men and women and children to such a state of misery? Father Cyril said the archbishop was an eminent servant of the Lord Jesus Christ, and only desired their salvation. It could not be true. Either he was quite ignorant of what was being done in his name, or he belonged to the synagogue of Satan—that terrible congregation of devil-worshippers, the very name of which made him shudder when he read the words, "'Behold, I will make them of the synagogue of Satan, which say they are Jews, and are not, but do lie.'" His father was falling into a troubled sleep beside him, and Michael heard him muttering in an undertone, "'My God! My God!'" It was the only prayer his weary, worn-out brain could form. Michael bent over him and kissed his shaven head reverently. CHAPTER XIX THE GREAT SIBERIAN ROAD