The “privileged” room was also full of people, and we found there some comrades from Kara—Tchekondze and Zuckermann. They were lying close together on the crowded floor, and we with difficulty found a vacant spot, so that we could lie down near our friends. Zuckermann was known to me: he was a compositor, who in the middle of the sixties had trudged on foot from Berlin into Switzerland, where I subsequently had made his acquaintance. He had gone to Russia later, and had worked at the secret printing-press of the _Naròdnaia Vòlya_, where he was arrested at the same time as Sophia Ivànova. I had been told by comrades how heroically he had behaved during the trial. In order to shield the others he had taken all blame on his own shoulders, declared that it was he who had fired the first shot in resistance to the gendarmerie, and so on. He had been condemned to eight years’ “katorga” and sent to Kara, where he had become the darling of the whole prison. Always sunny-tempered, full of wit and fun, he spread good humour everywhere; moreover, he was unselfishness personified, ever ready to help others at his own expense, one of those people who are called “too good for this world.” Even as we lay on the floor in that horrible place he told stories and jested, drawing the most glowing imaginary pictures of his future life in Yakutsk, whither he was being sent for internment. The reality, unhappily, turned out widely different from his sanguine prophecies. Poor merry Zuckermann could not hold out against the hardships and loneliness of his place of exile, and he put an end to his own life. Tchekondze I had not met before, but we had many common friends. He came from Gruzia, and had graduated in the Petersburg college for artillery officers. With other Caucasians he had then participated in the Propagandist movement, had been arrested in 1875, and sentenced in the “Trial of the fifty” to banishment; but he had escaped from Siberia, and had been recaptured and condemned to three years’ penal servitude. He was now going into exile in Yakutsk. He impressed one as a strong-willed, careful, practical man, who would never be at a loss, but would find a sphere of usefulness under any circumstances; and so indeed he proved in his after life. The privations he suffered during long years of exile undermined his health, however. When sent to Western Siberia in the early nineties he fell seriously ill and died in Kurgan, on the threshold of Europe, in 1897.