one to five years is made to his period of exile. Perhaps the isprávnik Známenski reported that Dr. Martínof was "insubordinate"; and very likely he was insubordinate. He certainly had grievances enough to make him so. One peculiarly exasperating thing happened to him almost in my presence. There is an administrative regulation in force in most Siberian penal settlements, requiring political exiles to appear at the police-station daily, semi-weekly, or weekly, and sign their names in a register. The intention, apparently, is to render escapes more difficult by forcing the exile to come, at short intervals, to the local authorities, and say, "I am still here; I have n't escaped." And as a proof that he has n't escaped they make him sign his name in a book. It is a stupid regulation; it affords no security whatever against escapes; it is intensely humiliating to the personal pride of the exile, especially if the authorities happen to be brutal, drunken, or depraved men; and it causes more heartburning and exasperation than any other regulation in the whole exile code.
One morning about a week after our arrival in Minusínsk I was sitting in the house of Ivánchin-Písaref, when the door opened and Dr. Martínof came in. For a moment I hardly recognized him. His eyes had a strained expression, his face was colorless, his lips trembled, and he was evidently struggling with deep and strong emotion.
"What has happened?" cried Mrs. Ivánchin-Písaref, rising as if to go to him.
"The isprávnik has ordered Márya [his wife] to come to the police-station," he replied.
For an instant I did not catch the significance of this fact, nor understand why it should so excite him. A few words of explanation, however, made the matter clear. Mrs. Martínof was in hourly expectation of her confinement. I remembered, when I thought of it, that only the night before I had had an engagement to spend the evening at Dr. Martínof's house, and that he had sent me word not
