Early one winter’s morning he was roughly shaken out of slumber by the director of police, and carried before the governor of the province, who had come specially on this errand.  His position was represented to him as one of the greatest danger, and he was recommended to make a full confession.  This for many days he refused to do, until a large number of those who were his accomplices were brought before him; and their weary, anxious faces induced him to exclaim loudly, and in his native tongue—­“Yes, I am a Pole, and have returned because I could not bear exile from my native land any longer.  Here I wished to live inoffensive and quiet, confiding my secret to a few countrymen; and I have nothing more to say.”  An immediate order was made out for the culprit’s departure to Kiev.  According to the story he has published his sufferings were frightful, and were not lessened when they stopped at a hut, where some rusty chains were brought out, the rings of which were thrust over his ankles:  they proved much too small, and the rust prevented the bars from turning in the sockets, so that the pain was insupportable.  He was rudely carried and thrown into the carriage, and thus arrived in an almost insensible condition at the fortress of Kiev.

After many months’ detention in this prison, being closely watched and badly treated, he was sentenced to hard labor in Siberia for life, degraded from his rank as a noble, and ordered to make the journey in chains.  As soon as this was read to him, he was taken to a kibitka, with three horses, irons were put on, and he was placed between two armed soldiers; the gates of the fortress were shut, and the road to Siberia was before him.  An employee came up to M. Piotrowski, and timidly offered him a small packet, saying—­“Accept this from my saint.”  The convict not understanding, he added, “You are a Pole, and do not know our customs.  It is my fete-day, when it is above all a duty to assist the unfortunate.  Pray, accept it, then, in the name of my saint, after whom I am called.”  The packet contained bread, salt, and money.

Night and day the journey continued, with the utmost rapidity, for about a month, when, in the middle of the night, they stopped at the fortress of Omsk, where he was placed for a few hours with a young officer who had committed some breach of discipline.  They talked on incessantly until the morning, so great was the pleasure of meeting with an educated person.  A map of Siberia was in the room, which Piotrowski examined with feverish interest.  “Ah!” said his companion, “are you meditating flight?  Pray, do not think of it:  many of your fellow-countrymen have tried it, and never succeeded.”

At midday he was brought before Prince Gortchakoff, and the critical moment of his fate arrived:  he might either be sent to some of the government factories in the neighborhood, or to the mines underground.  An hour passed in cruel suspense while this was debated.  At length one of the council announced to him that he was to be sent to the distillery of Ekaterinski, three hundred miles to the north of Omsk.  The clerks around congratulated him on his destination, and his departure was immediate.