On a wintry morning he reached a vast plain near the river Irtish, on which a village of about two hundred wooden huts was built around a factory.  When introduced into the clerks’ office, a young man who was writing jumped up and threw himself into his arms:  he also was a Pole from Cracow, a well-known poet, and sent away for life as “a measure of precaution.”  Soon they were joined by another political criminal:  these spoke rapidly and with extreme emotion, entreating their new friend to bear everything in the most submissive and patient manner, as the only means of escaping from menial employment, and being promoted to the clerks’ office.  Not long was he permitted to rest.  A convict came and ordered him to take a broom and sweep away a mass of dirt that some masons had left; a murderer was his companion; and thus he went on until nightfall, when his two friends were permitted to visit him, in the presence of the soldiers and convicts, most of the latter of whom had been guilty of frightful crimes.

Thus day after day passed on, in sweeping, carrying wood and water, amid snow and frost.  His good conduct brought him, in a year and a half, to the office, where he received ten francs a month and his rations, and the work was light.  During this time he saw and conversed with many farmers and travelers from a distance, and gained every information about the roads, rivers, etc., with a view to the escape he was ever meditating.  Some of the natives unite with the soldiers in exercising an incessant supervision over the convicts, and a common saying among the Tartars is:  “In killing a squirrel you get but one skin, whilst a convict has three—­his coat, his shirt, and his skin.”

Slowly and painfully he collected the materials for his journey.  First of all, a passport was an essential.  A convict who had been sentenced for making false money, still possessed an excellent stamp of the royal arms; this Piotrowski bought for a few francs.  The sheet of paper was easily obtained in the office, and the passport forged.  After long waiting, he procured a Siberian wig—­that is, a sheepskin with the wool turned in, to preserve the head from the cold—­three shirts, a sheepskin bournouse, and a red velvet cap bordered with fur—­the dress of a well-to-do peasant.  On a sharp frosty night he quitted Ekaterinski for Tara, having determined to try the road to the north for Archangel, as the least frequented.  A large fair was shortly to be held at Irbit, at the foot of the Urals, and he hoped to hide himself in the vast crowd of people that frequented it.  Soon after he had crossed the river a sledge was heard behind him.  He trembled for his safety—­his pursuers were perhaps coming.

“Where are you going?” shouted the peasant who drove it.

“To Tara.”

“Give me ten sous, and I will take you.”

“No; it is too much.  I will give eight.”

“Well, so let it be.  Jump in quickly.”