When she saw him in his prison garb, in chains together with murderers, she fell to the floor, and it was a long time before she recovered from her swoon. Then she placed her children around her, sat down amid them, and began to tell him about their domestic affairs, and to ask him about everything that had happened to him. He told her the whole story. She asked: “What is to be the result of it?” He said: “We must petition the Czar. It is impossible that an innocent man should be condemned.” The wife said that she had already sent in a petition to the Czar, but that the petition had not been granted. Aksénof said nothing, but was evidently very much downcast. Then his wife said: “You see the dream that I had, when I dreamed that you had become gray-headed, meant something, after all. Already your hair has begun to turn gray with trouble. You ought to have stayed at home that time.” And she began to tear her hair, and she said: “Vanya,[5] my dearest husband, tell your wife the truth: Did you commit that crime or not?” Aksénof said: “So you, too, have no faith in me!” And he wrung his hands and wept. Then a soldier came and said that it was time for the wife and children to go. And Aksénof for the last time bade farewell to his family. When his wife was gone, Aksénof began to think over all that they had said. When he remembered that his wife had also distrusted him, and had asked him if he had murdered the merchant, he said to himself: “It is evident that no one but God can know the truth of the matter, and He is the only one to ask for mercy, and He is the only one from whom to expect it.” And from that time Aksénof ceased to send in petitions, ceased to hope, and only prayed to God. Aksénof was sentenced to be knouted, and then to exile with hard labor. And so it was done. He was flogged with the knout, and then, when the wounds from the knout were healed, he was sent with other exiles to Siberia. Aksénof lived twenty-six years in the mines. The hair on his head had become white as snow, and his beard had grown long, thin, and gray. All his gaiety had vanished. He was bent, his gait was slow, he spoke little, he never laughed, and he spent much of his time in prayer. Aksénof had learned while in prison to make boots, and with the money that he earned he bought the “Book of Martyrs,”[6] and used to read it when it was light enough in prison, and on holidays he would go to the prison church, read the Gospels, and sing in the choir, for his voice was still strong and good. The authorities liked Aksénof for his submissiveness, and his prison associates respected him and called him “Grandfather” and the “man of God.” Whenever they had petitions to be presented, Aksénof was always chosen to carry them to the authorities; and when quarrels arose among the prisoners, they always came to Aksénof as umpire. Aksénof never received any letters from home, and he knew not whether his wife and children were alive.