Three weeks passed, when suddenly the steward called me and told me that Misha had recovered but did not want to work with me because of my obstinate nature; and therefore in the meantime I would be ordered to dig stumps out of the wood. This work was considered a punishment. "Why?" I asked. Suddenly the handsome monk, Father Anthony, entered the office, stood modestly aside and listened. The steward continued to explain to me: "Because of your obstinate nature and your impudent opinions about the brothers. At your age and in your condition, it is foolish; unbearable; and you must be punished. But the Father Superior, in his goodness, said that we should take you over to the office for easy work. And that is how it may turn out." He spoke for a long time, in a singsong voice and without feeling; and I saw that it did not come from his conscience, but that he dragged one word after another from duty. Father Anthony leaned against a bench, looked at me, stroked his beard and smiled with his beautiful eyes as if he were joking with me about something. I wished to show him my character and said to the steward: "I don't seek to be raised, nor do I wish to accept humiliation, for I do not deserve it, as you know, but I want justice." The steward grew red in the face and beat the ground with his stick. "Keep silent, insolent one!" Father Anthony bent to his ear and said something. "It is impossible," answered the steward. "He is to take his punishment without a murmur." Anthony shrugged his shoulders and turned toward me. His voice was low and warm: "Submit, Matvei." He conquered me with his two words and his caressing look. I bowed to the steward and to him, and then I asked the steward when I must go to the wood. "In three days," he answered. "But these three days you must go to the dungeon--that's what." If Anthony had not been there I certainly would have broken the steward's bones. But I took Anthony's words as a sign of the possibility to get near him, and for this I was ready to cut off my right arm--anything. They sent me down to the dungeon. It was a hole underneath the office, in which it was impossible to stand or lie down; one had to sit. Straw was thrown on the floor, but it was wet from dampness. And it was quiet as a grave, not even mice were there; and such darkness that the hands disappeared. If you put your hands before your face they were not visible. I sat there and was silent, and everything in me seemed poured from lead. I was heavy as stone, and cold as ice. I clinched my teeth for I wished to hold back my thoughts; but they flamed up within me like coals and burned me. I could have bitten somebody, but there was no one to bite. I caught my hair with my hands, swayed back and forth like the tongue of a bell, and shrieked and raved and roared within: