I held fast to the hope that it really would be so, and tried to stifle the doubts that persisted in rising. It was certainly pleasanter to dream of prospective freedom, than to brood over the consequences of extradition to Russia, or even of being set over the Russian border. The sight of Frau Bulìgin had aroused keen longings for liberty; fancy painted joyful pictures, my thoughts dwelt on my friends and my work. Mentally I lived through many scenes of welcome, and saw our circle setting to work with redoubled energy at our “League for the Emancipation of Labour.” I planned out to the smallest detail how I would make up for my enforced idleness. I lived only in the future, and looked on the dreary present as if it were a long-vanished past, a disagreeable episode that I and mine could talk over as far behind us. * * * * * “To-day the order for my release will be made out.” I remember how I awoke on a certain May morning with this thought in my mind, and instantly began to conjecture in what manner the announcement would be made to me. “You are to go to the Public Prosecutor,” said the warder, breaking in on my visions. “It is for my formal discharge,” was my first thought; “the man is keeping his word. Strange that the judge has been so quick in pronouncing his decision; it is still quite early,” I meditated, as I went along the corridor. In the office sat Herr von Berg at a table; beside him was a young clerk, and the table was covered with bundles of documents. “To-day, as you are aware,” said the Public Prosecutor, turning to me, “judgment was to be given on your case. Before I inform you of the verdict, I must again have your assurance that your name is Bulìgin, and your home Moscow.” “Certainly. I am Bulìgin, of Moscow,” I answered. “Read the document relating to that point,” said the Public Prosecutor to the clerk. The latter read aloud in dry, business-like tones a communication, apparently emanating from some Moscow official, stating curtly that there was no person of the name of Bulìgin answering to the description given.[17] Footnote 17: This was true. The passport was forged, and my comrade who travelled with it bore another name in Russia. “What have you to say to this?” asked Herr von Berg coldly. I felt that the blood had left my cheeks, and that my knees were trembling; but I pulled myself together at once, and began to defend myself, speaking rapidly, warmly, and earnestly. I saw my critical situation, and felt the ground slipping from under my feet. My fear of communications with the Russian Government was justified, and it was now a fight for life. I had so often dreaded this eventuality, that my plan of defence was prepared.