The mosque in which I was imprisoned is situated on the shores of the Bosphorus, and through my window-grating I could watch the blue sea and the vessels sailing to and fro. The mulla who came to visit me was of Sclavonic origin; he was a Bulgarian from Gabrova. We therefore understood one another without much difficulty.[3] My visitor set to work in a roundabout way to convert me to the Turkish faith. He praised the Turkish people, their customs and morals, and extolled the power and glory of the Sultan. At first, though very indignant at all this, I kept silence, but at last I began to contradict. Thereupon, in order to gain my confidence in himself and his faith, he obtained as a first step permission for my removal to a more comfortable cell, and for my being provided with better food. Accordingly I was transferred to the ground floor of the mosque, part of which the mulla himself inhabited, and was allowed tobacco and all sorts of sweetmeats and wine. Still, notwithstanding all this, my chains were left on me. My teacher (himself a renegade), according to the law of Mohammed, could not drink wine, but he enticed and tempted me to. “Turn Islamist,” he would say, “and then how happy you will be: your chains will at once fall off you. And see how many ships there are: you may enter the Turkish service on one of them, and in time become one of our captains!” I lay on my mat without touching any of the tempting viands, and scarcely hearing a word that my tempter said, for my mind was filled with thoughts of my native land. I murmured the names of my friends and of all dear to me, and pondered over my lost happiness. My heart was breaking, my soul was torn with uncertainty and grief. Ah! how well I remember those sad hours, filled with such sorrowful musings! As I now recollect, my thoughts then wandered to the far-off village, my native Konsovka. I was an orphan, and already had obtained my commission. From the training college I had come straight to the house of my grandmother, whose name was Agraffena Konsova. Not far from us, in the town of Baturin, lived Rakitin, a retired brigadier, a widower, whose estates in the country adjoined ours. Leff Hieraclieovitch[4] had one daughter, Irena Lvovna. To tell all briefly, what with going to the church of Rakitin, visiting Irena at her father’s halls, and our secret meetings and walks together, we fell in love with one another. My love for Irena was passionate and unrestrained. With her dusky skin and luxurious black hair, she was charming. She was my life, my idol, to whom I offered prayers night and day. We confessed our love, and day by day became dearer to each other. Ah! those moments, those meetings, those vows!