his hard couch, nor would he leave it, and Malinkoff, with a shrug of his shoulders, went back to his bed.
"That is Russia—eternal Russia," he said, and he spoke without bitterness. "Neither Czar nor Soviet will alter it."
They did not go to sleep again. Something was speaking to them from the next cell, something that whimpered and raised its hands in appeal, and they welcomed the daylight, but not the diversion which daylight brought. Again the door banged open, and this time a file of soldiers stood in the entrance.
"Boris Michaelovitch," said the dark figure in the entrance, "it is the hour!"
The priest rose slowly. His face was grey, the hands clasped together before him shook; nevertheless, he walked firmly to the door.
Before the soldiers had closed around him he turned and raised his hand in blessing, and Malinkoff fell upon his knees.
Again the door slammed and the bolts shot home, and they waited in silence.
There was no sound for ten minutes, then came a crash of musketry, so unexpected and so loud that it almost deafened them. A second volley followed, and after an interval a third, and then silence. Cherry Bim wiped his forehead.
