While there were really serious charges against Pasha, these were all registered against her conspirative name, consequently no definite charge of any kind was known against her at the time of this arrest. Merely on the strength of her having been in the newspaper office she was kept “on suspicion.” Later developments in her case are not germane to the moment. She was put into a cell with a number of other women to await trial. One Sunday afternoon an incident occurred in this cell which aroused wide interest, and Pasha, knowing that I would want an accurate account of the affair, managed to write and have smuggled out to me a graphic letter. The only necessary word of explanation concerns the time-worn custom observed in Russian prisons of allowing political prisoners to receive donations of food one day a week from their friends, which recipients share with their less fortunate comrades. In the particular prison where Pasha was incarcerated there was a group of men politicals in a room directly over the women. When the women were ready to divide their contributions with the men they generally rapped on the ceiling with a broom or mop-handle, and the men would drop a cord out of their window so that it would dangle in front of one of the windows of the women’s room. Pasha’s account of what is now known as the Semonova tragedy (Semonova being the name of one of the other women confined in the prison) is as follows [I give her own words]: On Sunday after six o’clock Semonova came to the center window. She tapped on the ceiling with the mop-stick for the men of the room above to drop the string--the telephone--they called it. The package with tea, sugar, and tobacco was on the window-sill. Some women were standing near Semonova, others, I among them, were sitting at the table, drinking tea. One was walking up and down. We were sixteen in the room, which made it very crowded. I saw the string drop and several hands go through the bars to hold it, but the winds blow it from them and then suddenly it was jerked up. Semonova sat sideways on the window sill, her left side toward the window, and her left hand supported her head. She seemed to be waiting for the telephone to be dropped for the second time. A few seconds later a shot rang out. I saw a small puff of yellow smoke. Semonova’s head dropped strangely. My heart stood still. “Can it be!” but I saw that the group at the window moved and no one seemed wounded. I ran to them in the hope that I was mistaken. Meanwhile one who was standing near her took Semonova and laid her down on the floor with the words “She is killed.” One of the prisoners who was a _feldsher_ felt her pulse, but with a gesture of hopelessness turned aside. Semonova’s eyes were glazed and blood flowed from her head. I could not desert her. It seemed to me she still felt and I could not leave her alone.