Upon which, satisfied with himself this time, he sat down again and commenced to write rapidly.  They left him in peace, as he desired.  He did not raise his head once, even at the moment when a murmur louder than usual showed that the hearers regarded Rouletabille’s crimes with especial detestation.  He had the happiness of having entirely completed his correspond once when they asked him to rise to hear judgment pronounced upon him.  The supreme communion that he had just had with his friend Sainclair and with the dear Lady in Black restored all his spirit to him.  He listened respectfully to the sentence which condemned him to death, though he was busy sliding his tongue along the gummed edge of his envelope.

These were the counts on which he was to be hanged: 

1.  Because he had come to Russia and mixed in affairs that did not
    concern his nationality, and had done this in spite of warning
    to remain in France.

2.  Because he had not kept the promises of neutrality he freely
    made to a representative of the Central Revolutionary Committee.

3.  For trying to penetrate the mystery of the Trebassof datcha.

4.  For having Comrade Matiew whipped and imprisoned by Koupriane.

5.  For having denounced to Koupriane the identity of the two
    “doctors” who had been assigned to kill General Trebassof.

6.  For having caused the arrest of Natacha Feodorovna.

It was a list longer than was needed for his doom.  Rouletabille kissed his ikons and handed them to Annouchka along with the letters.  Then he declared, with his lips trembling slightly, and a cold sweat on his forehead, that he was ready to submit to his fate.

XVII

THE LAST CRAVAT

The gentleman of the Neva said to him:  “If you have nothing further to say, we will go into the courtyard.”

Rouletabille understood at last that hanging him in the room where judgment had been pronounced was rendered impossible by the violence of the prisoner just executed.  Not only the rope and the ring-bolt had been torn away, but part of the beam had splintered.

“There is nothing more,” replied Rouletabille.

He was mistaken.  Something occurred to him, an idea flashed so suddenly that he became white as his shirt, and had to lean on the arm of the gentleman of the Neva in order to accompany him.

The door was open.  All the men who had voted his death filed out in gloomy silence.  The gentleman of the Neva, who seemed charged with the last offices for the prisoner, pushed him gently out into the court.

It was vast, and surrounded by a high board wall; some small buildings, with closed doors, stood to right and left.  A high chimney, partially demolished, rose from one corner.  Rouletabille decided the whole place was part of some old abandoned mill.  Above his head the sky was pale as a winding sheet.  A thunderous, intermittent, rhythmical noise appraised him that he could not be far from the sea.