“Why do you call me ‘master,’ since we are all going—” “Correct,” Tsiganok agreed with satisfaction. “What kind of master are you, if you are going to hang right beside me? There is a master for you”; and he pointed with his finger at the silent gendarme. “Eh, that fellow there is not worse than our kind”; he pointed with his eyes at Vasily. “Master! Eh there, master! You’re afraid, aren’t you?” “No,” answered the heavy tongue. “Never mind that ‘No.’ Don’t be ashamed; there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Only a dog wags his tail and snarls when he is taken to be hanged, but you are a man. Who is that dope? He isn’t one of you, is he?” He darted his glance rapidly about, and hissing, kept spitting continuously. Yanson, curled up into a motionless bundle, pressed closely into the corner. The flaps of his outworn fur cap stirred, but he maintained silence. Werner answered for him: “He killed his employer.” “O Lord!” wondered Tsiganok. “Why are such people allowed to kill?” For some time Tsiganok had been looking sideways at Musya; now turning quickly, he stared at her sharply, straight into her face. “Young lady, young lady! What about you? Her cheeks are rosy and she is laughing. Look, she is really laughing,” he said, clasping Werner’s knee with his clutching, iron-like fingers. “Look, look!” Reddening, smiling confusedly, Musya also gazed straight into his sharp and wildly searching eyes. The wheels rattled fast and noisily. The small cars kept hopping along the narrow rails. Now at a curve or at a crossing the small engine whistled shrilly and carefully—the engineer was afraid lest he might run over somebody. It was strange to think that so much humane painstaking care and exertion was being introduced into the business of hanging people; that the most insane deed on earth was being committed with such an air of simplicity and reasonableness. The cars were running, and human beings sat in them as people always do, and they rode as people usually ride; and then there would be a halt, as usual. “The train will stop for five minutes.” And there death would be waiting—eternity—the great mystery. CHAPTER XII THEY ARE HANGED The little cars ran on carefully. Sergey Golovin at one time had lived for several years with his relatives at their country-house, along this very road. He had traveled upon it by day as well as by night, and he knew it well. He closed his eyes, and thought that he might now simply be returning home—that he had stayed out late in the city with acquaintances, and was now coming back on the last train. “We will soon he there,” he said, opening his eyes and looking out of the grated, mute window. Nobody stirred, nobody answered; only Tsiganok spat quickly several times and his eyes ran over the car, as though feeling the windows, the doors, the soldiers. “It’s cold,” said Vasily Kashirin, his lips closed tightly, as though really frozen; and his words sounded strangely. Tanya Kovalchuk began to bustle about.