He sat down on the stone bench and looked at the dirty hole in the door through which food had been passed in to him—black bread and greasy soup made from the refuse of cabbages. He sat there several minutes, and threw his memory back to the days and nights which he had spent there buried alive, doubting at times that he existed till food was brought and the rats gathered round him, squeaking for their share. Fear gripped him. He sprang up and ran, his boots making a clatter over the planks of the broken doors in the passage. He gained the prison yard and his whole body was laved in a sweat of agony. He got out into the open, and stopping an instant to scan the slopes below to see if he had been observed or followed, he turned away to the left to the fenced-in grove which was the old burial ground of the prison. It was in there that his father had been buried, but Peter did not know where. A few rotten boards lay upon the ground; a few weather-beaten crosses scored and twisted out of shape, littered the ground. Peter stood with tears in his eyes and looked over the rough ground. “Peter Petrovitch has come back, my father,” he said. And crossing himself, he said a prayer. Then he turned and descended the slopes toward the city, bearing off to the right and trying to make it appear to any watcher that he had been wandering about aimlessly. The thought struck him that he had been unwise in going to the prison. It might lead to gossip, especially when it became known in the city that he was an American. Why should an American officer go prowling about the old prison of a city which—— Peter checked his thoughts in that direction. It seemed strange that he should refer to himself as an American. America was now very far away, a dim vista in his memory, hard to realize, like an old dream faintly remembered. It seemed odd that America had receded so far into the background of his mind. For was he not a Russian? Yes, he knew that he was Russian to the core. His Americanism had never been anything but an outer shell, a readjustment to new conditions, a learning of new things, and a new life. But he had not changed—only the clothes upon his back. True, he thought, the clothes would serve a purpose. Who would ever suspect that an American officer had come to Chita to do what he hoped to do? Who would ever suspect that the American lieutenant, Peter Gordon, could be Peter Petrovitch Gorekin, the son of an unfortunate? He entered the city again, this time far to the right of where he had gone up the slope, and rambled along the Sofistkaya till he came to the old post-house again—the restaurant. He went in, and found a few soldiers sitting about tables talking and playing games. He took a table to himself and when the gypsy girl came for his order, he called for vodka. He was chilled by his walk on the hill and his spirits were depressed by the prison. The liquor warmed him.