Seeing that we were resolved on silence, and that we had determined not to pay any attention to him, he ran towards us, livid and trembling with rage. At two steps’ distance, he saw a heavy box, which served to hold the bread given for the dinner and supper of the convicts. Its contents were sufficient for the meal of half the prisoners. At this moment it was empty. He seized it with both hands and brandished it above our heads. Although murder, or attempted, was an inexhaustible source of trouble for the convicts--examinations, counter-examinations, and inquiries without end would be the natural consequence--and though quarrels were generally cut short, when they did not lead to such serious results, yet every one remained silent and waited. Not one word in our favour, not one cry against Gazin. The hatred of all the prisoners for all who were of gentle birth was so great that every one of them was evidently pleased to see that we were in danger. But a fortunate incident terminated this scene, which must have become tragic. Gazin was about to let fly the enormous box, which he was turning and twisting above his head, when a convict ran in from the barracks, and cried out: “Gazin, they have stolen your vodka!” The horrible brigand let fall the box with a frightful oath, and ran out of the kitchen. “Well, God has saved them,” said the prisoners among themselves, repeating the words several times. I never knew whether his vodka had been stolen, or whether it was only a stratagem invented to save us. That same evening, before the closing of the barracks, when it was already dark, I walked to the side of the palisade. A heavy feeling of sadness weighed upon my soul. During all the time that I passed in the convict prison I never felt myself so miserable as on that evening, though the first day is always the hardest, whether at hard labour or in the prison. One thought in particular had left me no respite since my deportation--a question insoluble then and insoluble now. I reflected on the inequality of the punishments inflicted for the same crimes. Often, indeed, one crime cannot be compared even approximately to another. Two murderers kill a man under circumstances which in each case are minutely examined and weighed. They each receive the same punishment; and yet by what an abyss are their two actions separated! One has committed a murder for a trifle--for an onion. He has killed on the high-road a peasant who was passing, and found on him an onion, and nothing else. “Well, I was sent to hard labour for a peasant who had nothing but an onion!” “Fool that you are! an onion is worth a kopeck. If you had killed a hundred peasants you would have had a hundred kopecks, or one rouble.” The above is a prison joke. Another criminal has killed a debauchee who was oppressing or dishonouring his wife, his sister, or his daughter.