It was the evening of the next day when they reached the prison, where there was a hospital. It stood in one corner of the high stockade which enclosed all the prison buildings, a low-roofed kamera, very much like the rest. There was to be the usual third days' halt here, and the next morning the prison-yard was thronged with exiles. The men lounged under the walls, smoking and gambling, whilst the women washed and mended, or crouched on the ground gossiping. It was intensely hot again, and all were glad to rest as quietly as possible. Before the day was over, Michael and Sergius heard their names called in a shrill voice. A woman was standing at the door of the hospital, and they ran to her. "A convict who came in here last night wants to see you," she said, looking with open admiration at the two sturdy, sunburnt boys; "she says she is fond of boys, and I don't wonder at it. We don't see many of your sort here." They followed the woman into a filthy corridor, where the floor was thickly covered with all kinds of sweepings and slops from the wards. A noisome stench pervaded it, even worse than the foul air of the kamera to which they were so well used. With the tainted atmosphere of disease and rotting refuse was mingled the sickening odour of drugs and liniments. Michael and Sergius could hardly breathe, but they followed the woman in silence, keeping their lips closely shut. But if the air was poisonous in the corridor, it was far worse in the women's ward. There were a number of low, narrow cots, placed so close together that there was barely room to pass between each pair of them, and as the suffering women lay, they breathed and coughed into each other's faces. But those who lay in the cots were well off, for the dirty floor was strewn with wretched creatures wherever there was sufficient space for them. These were packed as closely as the convicts in the kameras, and could not stir without disturbing their companions on either side. There was no ventilation except a few holes in the walls, for the windows would not open, and the cots were ranged against them. There was a dim light only, for the glass panes were thick with dust, and had, moreover, a coat of white paint obscuring them. In the grey gloom, surrounded by pallid and fevered faces, the boys were at a loss to find Anna, until they heard the racking cough with which they had grown familiar during Marfa's illness. They stepped carefully among the crowd of sick folk. Anna was stretched on the ground, almost under a cot. A thin straw palliasse lay below her, but the sheet which had been thrown over her was ragged and bloodstained. It was impossible for her to raise herself, even when her throat and chest were most convulsed with coughing. She was choking now; and Michael knelt beside her, and put his arm under her head, until the paroxysm had passed away. "This is hell!" she gasped, as soon as she could speak.