When Tsiganok was free he had worn only a pair of dashing mustaches, but in the prison a short, black, bristly beard grew on his face and it made him look fearsome, insane. At times Tsiganok really lost his senses and whirled absurdly about in the cell, still tapping upon the rough, plastered walls nervously. And he drank water like a horse. At times toward evening when they lit the lamp, Tsiganok would stand on all fours in the middle of his cell and would howl the quivering howl of a wolf. He was peculiarly serious while doing it, and would howl as though he were performing an important and indispensable act. He would fill his chest with air and then exhale it, slowly in a prolonged tremulous howl, and, cocking his eyes, would listen intently as the sound issued forth. And the very quiver in his voice seemed in a manner intentional. He did not scream wildly, but drew out each note carefully in that mournful wail full of untold sorrow and terror. Then he would suddenly break off howling and for several minutes would remain silent, still standing on all fours. Then suddenly he would mutter softly, staring at the ground: “My darlings, my sweethearts!... My darlings, my sweethearts! have pity.... My darlings!... My sweethearts!” And it seemed again as if he were listening intently to his own voice. As he said each word he would listen. Then he would jump up and for a whole hour would curse continually. He cursed picturesquely, shouting and rolling his blood-shot eyes. “If you hang me—hang me!” and he would burst out cursing again. And the sentinel, in the meantime white as chalk, weeping with pain and fright, would knock at the door with the butt-end of the gun and cry helplessly: “I’ll fire! I’ll kill you as sure as I live! Do you hear?” But he dared not shoot. If there was no actual rebellion they never fired at those who had been condemned to death. And Tsiganok would gnash his teeth, would curse and spit. His brain thus racked on a monstrously sharp blade between life and death was falling to pieces like a lump of dry clay. When they entered the cell at midnight to lead Tsiganok to the execution he began to bustle about and seemed to have recovered his spirits. Again he had that sweet taste in his mouth, and his saliva collected abundantly, but his cheeks turned rosy and in his eyes began to glisten his former somewhat savage slyness. Dressing himself he asked the official: “Who is going to do the hanging? A new man? I suppose he hasn’t learned his job yet.” “You needn’t worry about it,” answered the official dryly. “I can’t help worrying, your Honor. I am going to be hanged, not you. At least don’t be stingy with the government’s soap on the noose.” “All right, all right! Keep quiet!” “This man here has eaten all your soap,” said Tsiganok, pointing to the warden. “See how his face shines.” “Silence!” “Don’t be stingy!”