DAY after day passed by. The burning sun beat down upon the exiles, scorching their skin and almost blinding their eyes. The fettered convicts could hardly drag their feet along the hot dust; and the women lagged behind in a straggling line. The convoy-guards grew irritable, and more brutal than in milder weather. They too suffered, but there was no despair added to their sufferings. They had only certain stages to travel, and then they would hand over their charge to a fresh captain and guard. Every third day there was a respite. After two days' march came a day of rest. Then the sick people were delivered from the choking dust and rough jolting of the telegas. Marfa could lie during the day out of doors under the shadow of the prison walls, with all her friends about her. They listened to her plaintive wanderings in delirium, now and then catching a gleam of recognition or a word or two of intelligence. But the fever was high, and there was no alleviation for it. Anna Grigorovna, the friendly convict, did her utmost to comfort Tatiania, and reconcile her to Marfa's death. But she refused all consolation. Anna had no children, and knew nothing of a mother's heart. If only she could sit beside her dying girl, she would be satisfied. But that they all knew it was utterly useless to ask. The telegas were already overladen, and some of the children were carried on the baggage-waggons. Tatiania was in fair health, and quite able to walk. "Even if I could walk," said Anna, "they would not let me give up my place to you." She was dying slowly of consumption, and knew she must be left behind in one of the few prison hospitals along the Great Siberian Road. Though she dreaded the place, she was longing for the rest she would find there, if the death she prayed for did not overtake her before they reached it. She longed to die before she was parted from this strange little band of Stundists, whose company she had sought because of their quiet and decent ways. What astonished her was that not one among them murmured at their hard lot—excepting Tatiania, who only lamented not being able to ride with her dying girl in the telega. For that Marfa would die there was no shadow of a doubt. Khariton prayed in his inmost heart that death would come soon, but Tatiania could not bring herself even to say, "God's will be done!" Two or three children had perished already on the route, from the foul air and from the utter impossibility of cleanliness. None of them were Stundists' children; and their mothers had grown apathetic with despair, and were almost glad to be rid of a charge which became every day more and more burdensome. But Marfa had been an unfailing, untiring help, not a burden. What should they do without her? To see her lying in the creaking, jolting telega, with the fierce sun smiting her, was maddening to her mother.