“And have you heard, Semenich, in Vladimir town, of the Aksenofs, merchants? Are they alive?” “To be sure, I’ve heard! They are rich merchants, though their father is in Siberia--a sinner like the rest of us. And you, old man, why are you here?” Aksenof did not like to talk about his sorrow; so he sighed and said: “For my sins I’ve been here twenty-six years at hard labor.” Makar Semenof, however, persisted: “But what sort of sins?” Aksenof replied, “I must have deserved what I got.” Further than that he would not say, but the other prisoners told the new-comer why Aksenof was sent to Siberia. They related how some one had murdered a merchant while on a journey and had foisted the knife upon Aksenof, who had been sentenced, though innocent. When Makar Semenof heard this he looked at Aksenof, clapped his hands upon his knees, and exclaimed: “Well, that’s strange! Certainly is strange! You’ve grown old, grandfather!” The rest began to ask him why he was astonished, and where he had seen Aksenof, but Makar Semenof made no reply. He only said: “A miracle, brothers! That we should meet here!” And these words suggested to Aksenof the thought that this man knew perhaps who had killed the merchant. He asked: “Tell me, Semenich, have you heard about my case before? And have you ever seen me before?” “Why shouldn’t I have heard! News flies quickly. But it was such a long time ago that what I had heard I had forgotten,” said Makar Semenof. “Perhaps you’ve heard who killed the merchant?” asked Aksenof. Makar Semenof broke into a laugh and said: “To be sure, he killed him in whose sack was found the knife. And if some one else did slip the knife in the sack! Not caught, not a thief! Besides, how could any one have slipped the knife into the sack, since it was at your very head? You surely would have heard.” When Aksenof heard these words, the thought came to him that this very man had killed the merchant. He arose and went away. Aksenof could not sleep the entire night. A melancholy came upon him, and images began to rise up before him. First, he imagined he saw his wife the same as she looked when she saw him off to the fair for the last time. He saw her as in life; he saw her face and eyes, and heard how she spoke and laughed. Then he saw his children as they were then, little ones, one in a fur coat, another at the breast. And he recalled himself as he had been once--joyous, young; he recalled too how he looked as he sat in the hotel when they arrested him; how he played on the guitar, and how happy he had felt at that moment. And he recalled the place of execution, where he was knouted, and the man with the knout, and the throng all around, and the chains, and the convicts, and all the twenty-six years of his prison life; and his old age too he recalled. And such a melancholy came upon Aksenof, that death itself would have been welcome. “And all on account of that scoundrel!” thought Aksenof.