men, women, and children set out on foot for Yalútorfsk. Our attention was first attracted by a great crowd of people standing in the street outside the prison wall. As we drew nearer, the crowd resolved itself into a hundred or more women and children in bright-colored calico gowns, with kerchiefs over their heads, and about 250 men dressed in the gray exile costume, all standing close together in a dense throng, surrounded by a cordon of soldiers. In the street near them were fifteen or twenty one-horse telégas, or small four-wheeled wagons, some piled high with the gray bags in which exiles carry their spare clothing and personal property, and some filled with men, women, and children, who, by reason of age, weakness, or infirmity, could not walk. It seemed surprising to me that anybody should be able to walk after a week's confinement in that prison. The air was filled with a continuous hum of voices as the exiles talked eagerly with one another, and occasionally we could hear the wail of a sick child from one of the telégas, or a faint jingle of chains as some of the men, tired of standing, changed their positions or threw themselves on the ground. The officer in charge of the party, a heavily built man with yellowish side-whiskers, light-blue eyes, and a hard, unsympathetic face, stood near the telégas, surrounded by women and children, who were begging him to let them ride.
"Please put my little girl in a wagon," said one pale-faced woman, as I approached the group. "She is n't ten years old and she has a lame ankle; she can never walk thirty versts."
"What 's the matter with her ankle?" inquired the officer impatiently, looking down at the child's thin bare feet and legs.
"I don't know; she says it hurts her," replied the mother. "Please let her ride, for God's sake!"
"She can't ride, I tell you—there's no room," said the officer, still more impatiently. "I don't believe there's
