Shackles, clamped round human ankles, clanked and rattled in the dark, damp corridors down which we were led. At a turning stood a group of “politicals”--beardless college boys in their student jackets. We crossed a yard, passed the windows of a workshop where busy looms rattled. A long, low workshop, from which issued noises of the forge, of iron whelting and hammer strokes, stood in the center of the yard. We passed round it and entered a court, at the end of which stood a similar, but smaller, building of whitewashed stone and low roof, with iron-grated windows. The door stood to one side and was approached by a small, wooden porch. We entered the outer door and turned abruptly to the left and stood before a barred door with a small peep-hole, crossed by iron, cut at eye level. The chief of police headed our file; I followed, and at my heels Mr. Luboshitz, behind him the prison-master, a military officer, several soldiers and three prison officials. The chief threw open the door and held it wide with extended arm for me to pass in first. I stepped over the threshold and stood face to face with the most famous “terrorist” in Russia. She was a delicate girl with soft, blue eyes that deepened to violet as the pink in her clear cheeks deepened to a hectic red as she talked. Her wavy brown hair was parted in the middle and draped over her temples to hide hideous scars left by the kicks of the Cossacks. Her costume was a simple, blue, prison dress. She stood quietly awaiting our approach, a little mystified apparently. The chief of police was the first to speak. “Mademoiselle,” he said, removing his hat and addressing her with all the courtesy of a gentleman approaching any lady in his wife’s drawing-room; “Mademoiselle, these gentlemen are from America. They would like to talk with you for a few minutes if you feel equal to it.” “Certainly,” she replied, and turned with a grateful smile toward me. With characteristic delicacy the very polite chief of police at once withdrew, and as long as we remained with her he continued to pace the outer court. Not so the prison-master, soldiers, and other officials. “Do you speak French, mademoiselle?” I asked. “Yes, monsieur, a little; or German.” “What about English?” “A _leetle_,” she answered, laughing nervously. She was still standing. There was but one chair in the room, a wooden chair. This I drew toward her and she sat down. As she did so her handkerchief dropped from her hand. We all noticed it, for it was wet and stained with blood. Luboshitz picked it up and handed it to her. As he turned away I saw beads of cold sweat standing on his brow, and he told me afterward that he thought he was on the point of fainting. “Once I knew all the languages, monsieur,” she went on, “but since my head was hurt I find it difficult to remember.” Her voice was soft and rich, even melodious. “Are you comfortable--and well?” I asked--with awkwardness, I must confess. “_Je suis très malade._”