They were on the way back to the prison after their work. Vogt and Wolf stepped along side by side in the ranks. The long lean man seemed to be merely skin and bone; his cheeks had fallen in, the grey prison clothes hung loosely on his limbs. But his eyes glowed and sparkled as though with an inward fever, and a proud smile was on his lips. Vogt nodded to him. The gesture was the expression of a solemn vow. The troop of prisoners arrived at the gate. A heavy shower of rain drove them to take shelter in the arched doorway, and they stood pressed closely together waiting for the door to open. Suddenly Vogt felt Wolf's hand seize his own in a firm grip. "I think we are now at one about this, comrade?" he heard him whisper. And the peasant returned the strong pressure, and answered, "Yes, comrade." Each day in prison resembled every other; they passed slowly by like a chain of exactly equal links. When the ground became frozen and neither spade nor pickaxe could be used, the prisoners were given straw mats to plait or sacks to sew. Then Vogt used to swear to himself. "Damn it all! Why didn't I straighten my knees? What did it matter to me that the lieutenant had such a stuck-up way with him?" Thank God the first three months of the five had passed by, and in January he would return to the garrison. Then there would be two more months to serve; till in March, in the first days of spring, he would be free. But before that, when December was just beginning, bad news came to him from outside. His father was dead. And, worse still, he was already buried when the son first heard of the occurrence. But that had been the old man's wish. It all sounded like an old story, this that was told to the military prisoner Vogt, as he stood in the office by the superintendent of the prison, a little sickly-looking captain of infantry. The village-elder from home had come himself all this long way to inform the son of his father's death. There he stood, big, fat, and strong, in his sheepskin cloak; a freer breath of air seemed to have come in with him, and he related all there was to tell. It was not even certain when the turnpike-keeper had died. With the departure of summer the old man had seemed gradually to decay. In spite of that, however, he steadily refused to have any one to help him; and when the cold weather put a stop to work in the field he was seen no more by the neighbours. The little house looked lifeless with its closed shutters, and only the thin line of smoke which ascended from the chimney at morning and midday betrayed the presence of a living creature.