“Such a thing should not be possible,” rejoined Ivan Kouzmitch; “nevertheless, they say the scoundrel has already got possession of several forts.”

“It appears that he is in strength, indeed,” observed Chvabrine.

“We shall know directly the amount of his strength,” resumed the Commandant.  “Vassilissa Igorofna, give me the key of the barn.  Ivan Ignatiitch, bring up the Bashkir and tell Joulai to fetch the rods."[50]

“Wait a bit, Ivan Kouzmitch,” said the Commandant’s wife, rising; “let me take Masha out of the house.  Without I do so she would hear the cries, and they would frighten her.  And as for me, to tell the truth, I am not over curious about such matters.  So hoping to see you again—­”

Torture was then so rooted in the practice of justice that the beneficial ukase[51] ordaining its abolition remained a long time of none effect.  It was thought that the confession of the accused was indispensable to condemnation, an idea not merely unreasonable, but contrary to the dictates of the simplest good sense in legal matters, for, if the denial of the accused be not accepted as proof of his innocence, the extorted confession should still less serve as proof of his guilt.  Yet even now I still hear old judges sometimes regret the abolition of this barbarous custom.

But in those days no one ever doubted of the necessity for torture, neither the judges nor the accused themselves.  That is why the Commandant’s order did not arouse any surprise or emotion among us.  Iwan Ignatiitch went off to seek the Bashkir, who was under lock and key in the Commandant’s barn, and a few minutes later he was brought into the ante-room.  The Commandant ordered him to be brought before him.

The Bashkir crossed the sill with difficulty, owing to the wooden shackles he had on his feet.  I glanced at him and involuntarily shuddered.

He lifted his high cap and remained near the door.  I shall never forget that man; he seemed to be at least seventy years old, and he had neither nose nor ears.  His head was shaven, and his beard consisted of a few grey hairs.  He was little of stature, thin and bent; but his Tartar eyes still sparkled.

“Eh! eh!” said the Commandant, who recognized by these terrible marks one of the rebels punished in 1741, “you are an old wolf, by what I see.  You have already been caught in our traps.  ’Tis not the first time you have rebelled, since you have been so well cropped.  Come near and tell me who sent you.”

The old Bashkir remained silent, and looked at the Commandant with a look of complete idiocy.

“Well, why don’t you speak?” continued Ivan Kouzmitch.  “Don’t you understand Russ?  Joulai, ask him in your language who sent him to our fort.”

Joulai repeated Ivan Kouzmitch’s question in the Tartar language.  But the Bashkir looked at him with the same expression, and spoke never a word.

“Jachki!” the Commandant rapped out a Tartar oath, “I’ll make you speak.  Here, Joulai, strip him of his striped dressing-gown, his idiot’s dress, and stripe his shoulders.  Now then, Joulai, touch him up properly.”