In Tchita we had to part from our good _stàrosta_ Làzarev, who was to be interned here. We three others determined to secure for ourselves a thorough rest in this place; for we had been six weeks on the march from Irkutsk, and were thoroughly tired out. We felt in no hurry to go on; a prison awaited us, while on the journey we had at least a certain amount of freedom and variety. Moreover, we knew that there were a number of our comrades interned at Tchita, and we should be able to see something of them; while apparently all intercourse with the outer world would cease for us after this stage, where we must make our last adieux before the prison doors closed on us. We therefore reported ourselves sick, and easily got the prison doctor’s consent to our breaking the journey here; which meant that we should be picked up by the next convoy in about a fortnight’s time. Our comrades paid us frequent visits; that is, they came to the prison gate when we were in the courtyard. The most interesting news they gave us concerned the travels of the American writer, George Kennan, who had just arrived in Tchita on his return journey from Kara; and our friends were full of praise for that excellent man. During the last days of November we started again, this time in company with a so-called “family party” of ordinary prisoners—women and children as well as men going forward to prison and exile. There had not been much snow that winter, and instead of sledges two-wheeled carts were our means of transport, travelling in which was a positive martyrdom. The cold became more intense every day, and tried us severely, although we wore every warm garment we possessed, so that we moved with the greatest difficulty. The only way to keep warm was to march beside the carts, and one can imagine the sufferings of the unfortunate children who were accompanying their parents into this inhospitable desert. One longed for the next halting-station and for possibilities of warming oneself, which even there were not always all that could be desired. The halting-stations had sometimes not been heated for a good while, and the ordinary prisoners had first to chop wood with their numb and frozen hands; even then there was not always sufficient fuel. The stoves, too, were often out of order, and smoked so badly that to stay in the room was a misery. It happened repeatedly that we three “politicals” were accommodated in a peasant’s hut, and sometimes the whole party had to be quartered in like manner. We were always glad when this happened, for the wretchedest cabin seemed comfortable in comparison with even the best _étape_. How often we wished we could be by ourselves in a hut of this kind during the rest of our imprisonment! * * * * *