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But suddenly his own face became bluish-black, like cast-iron, and his large yellow teeth flashed. Suddenly the little cars trembled and slackened their speed. All, except Yanson and Kashirin, rose and sat down again quickly. "Here is the station," said Sergey. It seemed to them as if all the air had been suddenly pumped out of the car, it became so difficult to breathe.
The same council-chamber of the military district court which had condemned Yanson had also condemned to death a peasant of the Government of Oryol, of the District of Yeletzk, Mikhail Golubets, nicknamed Tsiganok, also Tatarin. His latest crime, proven beyond question, had been the murder of three people and armed robbery. Behind that, his dark past disappeared in a depth of mystery.
Real spring." Yanson's small eyes were closing; he seemed to be falling asleep, and he moved so slowly and stiffly that the warden cried to him: "Hey, there! Quicker! Have you fallen asleep?" Suddenly Yanson stopped. "I don't want to be hanged," said he. He was taken by the arms and led away, and began to stride obediently, raising his shoulders.
Then he must have stumbled over something, for he waved his arms and fell face downward. And there he remained lying on the snow. "Pick up the gun, you sour-faced gray-coat, or I'll pick it up," said Tsiganok sternly to the other soldier. "You don't know your business!" The little lanterns began to move about busily again. Now it was the turn of Werner and Yanson.
Musya was silent. Then she resolutely moved forward. Two weeks before the terrorists had been tried the same military district court, with a different set of judges, had tried and condemned to death by hanging Ivan Yanson, a peasant. Ivan Yanson was a workman for a well-to-do farmer, in no way different from other workmen.
It seemed very possible that flags were waving over the houses. "We have arrived!" said Werner gayly when the carriage stopped, and he jumped out easily. But with Yanson it was a rather slow affair: silently and very drowsily he resisted and would not come out. He seized the knob. The gendarme opened the weak fingers and pulled his hand away.
At one time Yanson tried to make love to the cook, but he was not successful, and was rudely rejected and ridiculed. He was short in stature, his face was freckled, and his small, sleepy eyes were somewhat of an indefinite color. Yanson took his failure indifferently, and never again bothered the cook. But while Yanson spoke but little, he was listening to something all the time.
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."
It was not fear, nor anguish, but a feeling of enormous, painful, tormenting weariness which makes one feel like going off somewhere, lying down and closing one's eyes very tightly. Werner stretched himself and yawned slowly. Yanson also stretched himself and quickly yawned several times. "I wish they'd be quicker about it," said Werner wearily. Yanson was silent, shrinking together.
He looked at Yanson calmly with an air of importance and repeated: "It won't be long now. I suppose in about a week." Yanson turned pale, and as though falling asleep, so turbid was the look in his glassy eyes, asked: "Are you joking?" "First you could not wait, and now you think I am joking. We are not allowed to joke here.