And from these monotonously repeated words, and from the fact that each day came, passed and ended as every ordinary day had passed, Yanson became convinced that there would be no execution. He began to lose all memory of the trial, and would roll about all day long on his cot, vaguely and happily dreaming about the white melancholy fields, with their snow-mounds, about the refreshment bar at the railroad station, and about other things still more vague and bright. He was well fed in the prison, and somehow he began to grow stout rapidly and to assume airs. “Now she would have liked me,” he thought of his master’s wife. “Now I am stout—not worse-looking than the master.” But he longed for a drink of vodka, to drink and to take a ride on horseback, to ride fast, madly. When the terrorists were arrested the news of it reached the prison. And in answer to Yanson’s usual question, the warden said eagerly and unexpectedly: “It won’t be long now!” He looked at Yanson calmly with an air of importance and repeated: “It won’t be long now. I suppose in about a week.” Yanson turned pale, and as though falling asleep, so turbid was the look in his glassy eyes, asked: “Are you joking?” “First you could not wait, and now you think I am joking. We are not allowed to joke here. You like to joke, but we are not allowed to,” said the warden with dignity as he went away. Toward evening of that day Yanson had already grown thinner. His skin, which had stretched out and had become smooth for a time, was suddenly covered with a multitude of small wrinkles, and in places it seemed even to hang down. His eyes became sleepy, and all his motions were now so slow and languid as though each turn of the head, each move of the fingers, each step of the foot were a complicated and cumbersome undertaking which required very careful deliberation. At night he lay on his cot, but did not close his eyes, and thus, heavy with sleep, they remained open until morning. “Aha!” said the warden with satisfaction, seeing him on the following day. “This is no dramshop for you, my dear!” With a feeling of pleasant gratification, like a scientist whose experiment had proved successful again, he examined the condemned man closely and carefully from head to foot. Now everything would go along as necessary. Satan was disgraced, the sacredness of the prison and the execution was re-established, and the old man inquired condescendingly, even with a feeling of sincere pity: “Do you want to meet somebody or not?” “What for?” “Well, to say good-by! Have you no mother, for instance, or a brother?” “I must not be hanged,” said Yanson softly, and looked askance at the warden. “I don’t want to be hanged.” The warden looked at him and waved his hand in silence. Toward evening Yanson grew somewhat calmer.