During the hearing, which was conducted by the magistrate, the official whose name had not been mentioned addressed several questions to me. I did not recognise him at first, but later it appeared that I had known him at Kiëv, where—in 1877—he took part in my trial. His name was Kotliarèvsky; he was then Deputy Public Prosecutor in Kiëv, and now filled the same post at the Petersburg Appeal Courts, where he had to conduct the political cases in particular. It will thus be seen that this was the real owner of the position which Bogdanòvitch had falsely claimed when pretending to identify me at Freiburg. Although Kotliarèvsky was in very bad odour with the revolutionists, and had been shot at by Ossìnsky in 1878, I was in a way glad to meet him in this gloomy place, for, at any rate, his face was a familiar one. And he behaved in a very friendly way to me. We were soon deep in conversation, recounting our respective experiences since we had last met. That we might not disturb the magistrate, who was making out the protocol, we sat a little apart, and chatted quite comfortably. Kotliarèvsky remarked that I had altered very much; “and not only in outward appearance, I mean,” he said, “your whole character seems to me changed.” That might well be. Kotliarèvsky was noted for keen observation, and this faculty was very useful to him in his peculiar sphere. “Do you remember what a hot-headed young fellow you were? How you once nearly threw an ink-bottle at my head?” I remembered the incident perfectly, and saw why he referred to it. When I was at Kiëv I was in a high state of nervous excitability, and in consequence was often hasty and irritable. Partly because of this, and partly because I was a member of the “Buntari,” in whose programme was included a continual warfare against all recognised authorities, Kotliarèvsky and I once came to loggerheads. The point of dispute was the signing of a protocol, which I absolutely refused to do. In a towering passion I seized the ink-bottle, and was quite ready to hurl it at him had he persisted in trying to force me; but he saw my intention, and keeping quite composed, called the warder and whispered something to him. Seeing the man hasten away, I thought he had gone for the guard to put me in confinement. Great was my surprise and joy, therefore, when after a few minutes the door opened, and my friend Stefanòvitch[25] appeared on the threshold. It was a delight to us both, for although in the same prison, we had not hitherto been allowed to meet. Footnote 25: See pp. 15 and 98, note, p. 210, and portrait, p. 112. “Will you kindly pacify your comrade?” said Kotliarèvsky, turning to Stefanòvitch. “His nerves seem a little overstrained.” I learned thus to appreciate the adroitness of this man, and thanked him now for his considerate treatment of me on that occasion, which seemed to gratify him.