We were taken straight to the railway carriage engaged for us by the organisers of the convoy, while a compartment was reserved for the officer. We settled ourselves comfortably, and the train started. I now asked my companions the reason of their banishment, and learned from them that—as in many other instances described to me by people who had similarly been exiled to Siberia by “administrative methods”—they had simply been accused by the police of being _neblàgonadyèshny_, _i.e._ untrustworthy. This word has become classical in Russian police affairs, and has a conveniently vague signification. Literally it means “of whom nothing good can be expected.” A young man or a girl associates with So-and-so, reads such and such books; this is enough to awaken suspicion that the said young man or girl is “untrustworthy.” The police or the gendarmerie pay a domiciliary visit, find a suspicious letter or a prohibited book, and then the course of events is certain: arrest, imprisonment, Siberia. It may be scarcely credible that people languish for years in prison, without any pretence of legal procedure against them, simply by decree of an officer of gendarmerie; and that at the good pleasure of these officers—most of them fabulously ignorant men—people are banished to the wilds of Siberia. Even those familiar with Russian affairs are often shocked and staggered by some fresh case of this kind. As we were nearing a large station the officer informed us that we should be joined here by some more political exiles; and when the train came to a standstill, two quite young girls—at the most eighteen to twenty years of age—and two youths were brought into our carriage. We three who came from Kiëv were by no means aged; but we might almost have been called old folks by these children. We received the new-comers cordially, and of course begged for their story, which was as follows.