The following story concerns another of my fellow-prisoners at Kara. On the 25th December, 1879, General Drenteln was driving in his carriage through the streets of Petersburg. He had just been appointed chief of gendarmerie, in succession to General Mezentzev, (killed by the revolutionists; see pp. 92 and 263,) and was also the head of the notorious “third section.”[81] Suddenly a man riding a beautiful thorough-bred stopped the carriage and fired several shots at the General through the window, none of the bullets hitting their mark. The rider made off, the General cried to the coachman to follow him, and a wild chase began. The people in the streets understood nothing about what had occurred, and saw with amazement this strange race between the General’s carriage and a magnificently mounted horseman. More than once the latter seemed on the point of being brought to bay, but always escaped down some side street, closely followed by the General’s fast trotters. At last the rider made a dash, left his pursuers behind, and was in hot flight, when his horse stumbled and fell. The fugitive did not lose his presence of mind, however; beckoning to a policeman, he said: “My good man, this horse is hurt; just look after it for me while I go and fetch the groom.” The policeman obediently took the bridle, and the horseman vanished round the corner, cut through a passage, called a droschky, and was seen no more. General Drenteln foamed with rage when he found the horse in such safe keeping, but the rider gone. The police were set to work, and easily discovered the steed to be a racehorse named “Lady,” which had been hired from a riding-school by a student named Mirsky,[82] already under police observation. Mirsky was by this time no longer to be found in Petersburg; he had escaped to South Russia. Several months later, however, he met his fate at Taganrock, while under the roof of a friend and comrade named Tarhov, a lieutenant in the artillery. Another officer, having suspicions about Tarhov’s guest, put the police on the scent, and the house was surrounded. Mirsky, unwilling to surrender without a struggle, fired several revolver-shots at the police, and tried to break through their cordon. He was overpowered, however; was made prisoner, and in 1880 was brought before a court-martial, together with Tarhov, the poet A. Olchin, and some others. That was a time when even people not actually implicated in terrorist attempts were condemned to death off-hand by the courts-martial, and no one doubted that Mirsky—whose assault upon the chief of gendarmerie was undisputed—would be executed. Only he himself seemed to think otherwise. I remember how, shortly before the trial, somebody who had visited him in prison came to us and said that Mirsky wanted us to send him black clothes and a white tie, to wear when he went before the court. We were all very much surprised, and laughed rather mournfully over his odd whim. It was the first time it had