The dark carriages rolled over noiselessly one after another, took them in by twos, started off into the darkness—there where the lantern was shaking at the gate. The convoys like gray silhouettes surrounded each carriage; the horseshoes struck noisily against the ground, or plashed upon the melting snow. When Werner bent down, about to climb into the carriage, the gendarme whispered to him: “There is somebody else going along with you.” Werner was surprised. “Where? Where is he going? Oh, yes! Another one? Who is he?” The gendarme was silent. Indeed, in a dark corner a small, motionless but living figure pressed close to the side of the carriage. By the reflection of the lantern Werner noticed the flash of an open eye. Seating himself, Werner pushed his foot against the other man’s knee. “Excuse me, comrade.” The man made no reply. It was only when the carriage started, that he suddenly asked in broken Russian, speaking with difficulty: “Who are you?” “I am Werner, condemned to hanging for the attempt upon N—. And you?” “I am Yanson. They must not hang me.” They were riding thus in order to appear two hours later face to face before the inexplicable great mystery, in order to pass from Life to Death—and they were introducing each other. Life and Death moved simultaneously, and until the very end Life remained life, to the most ridiculous and insipid trifles. “What have you done, Yanson?” “I killed my master with a knife. I stole money.” It seemed from the tone of his voice that Yanson was falling asleep. Werner found his flabby hand in the darkness and pressed it. Yanson withdrew it drowsily. “Are you afraid?” asked Werner. “I don’t want to be hanged.” They became silent. Werner again found the Esthonian’s hand and pressed it firmly between his dry, burning palms. Yanson’s hand lay motionless, like a board, but he made no longer any effort to withdraw it.