The prison-master interrupted. “Speak only in Russian,” he said. We knew it would be difficult to talk freely in a language which he and the soldiers understood, and so Luboshitz began at once to photograph her. While he was doing this I stood near her, and as frequently as seemed expedient we exchanged sentences in French. “Did you come to Tamboff expressly to see me, monsieur?” “Yes, mademoiselle. Of course.” “Then people are talking about me?” “They are, indeed. And not in Russia only, but in other countries. In France there is a Spiradonova League.” “Speak Russian!” commanded the prison-master. As she leaned against the white wall near her barred window, she said: “That is what I mind most, monsieur--that soldier who is always looking in at me.” Her head rested against the cold plaster, and a half shadow fell across her face. Her delicate mouth was drawn tight, but her eyes shot bright glances toward us. She was so pathetically glad at our coming--probably the first bit of cheerful change since her incarceration. In the room was a dingy bed and a shaky table, which with the one chair comprised all of the furniture. As she talked a beautiful expression played over her regular features, and I thought of the word applied to her by the police-master--“Exalté.” “To see you, mademoiselle,” I ventured again in [Illustration: Marie Spiradonova in prison--the girl who shot the governor of Tamboff] French, “one would think that you looked upon your situation here as if it were the hour of your greatest happiness--” “Ah, monsieur, in a way I am happy, but--” A hand rested on my shoulder. Once too often had we defied the authorities. “Very well,” I answered. “Let her tell her story in Russian, from the very beginning.” “She may not speak further,” added the prison-master. “But we came here to listen to her story.” “That is impossible.” “But we have the governor’s permission.” “Have you it in writing?” “The police-master is our cicerone.” We called to him and asked him if it was not his understanding that we were to hear her story from her own lips. “Assuredly. It was the governor’s expressed wish,” he answered. “I cannot permit it,” sternly returned the prison-master. “You must. That is why I came with them, to see that they got every word from her.” “I am the responsible man here, and I cannot permit her to speak.” The parley continued, but the prison-master was obdurate. At last Spiradonova spoke: “Believe absolutely nothing unless you hear it from me.” She uttered the words slowly, distinctly, each syllable weighted with meaning. The situation was most uncomfortable. The police-master was deeply embarrassed and annoyed. The prison-master grim. Spiradonova cool, contained, and, in her attitude toward the prison-master, defiant and scornful.