“The eagle, pals, is the king of the woods,” began Skouratof; but that day nobody paid any attention to him. One afternoon, when the drum beat for beginning work, they took the eagle, tied his beak (for he struck a desperate attitude), and took him out of the prison on to the ramparts. The twelve convicts of the gang were extremely anxious to know where he would go to. It was a strange thing: they all seemed as happy as though they had themselves got their freedom. “Oh, the wretched brute. One wants to do him a kindness, and he tears your hand for you by way of thanks,” said the man who held him, looking almost lovingly at the spiteful bird. “Let him fly off, Mikitka!” “It doesn’t suit _him_ being a prisoner; give him his freedom, his jolly freedom.” They threw him from the ramparts on to the steppe. It was just at the end of autumn, a gray, cold day. The wind whistled on the bare steppe and went groaning through the yellow dried-up grass. The eagle made off directly, flapping his wounded wing, as if in a hurry to quit us and get himself a shelter from our piercing eyes. The convicts watched him intently as he went along with his head just above the grass. “Do you see him, hey?” said one very pensively. “He doesn’t look round,” said another; “he hasn’t looked behind once.” “Did you happen to fancy he’d come back to thank us?” said a third. “Sure enough, he’s free; he feels it. It’s _freedom_!” “Yes, freedom.” “You won’t see him any more, pals.” “What are you about sticking there? March, march!” cried the escort, and all went slowly to their work. CHAPTER VII. GRIEVANCES At the outset of this chapter, the editor of the “Recollections” of the late Alexander Petrovitch Goriantchikoff thinks it his duty to communicate what follows to his readers.