It was July, and the weather was unbearably hot.  From the stones, the walls, the iron of the roofs, which the sultry night had not cooled, the beat streamed into the motionless air.  When at rare intervals a slight breeze did arise, it brought but a whiff of hot air filled with dust and smelling of oil paint.

There were few people in the streets, and those who were out tried to keep on the shady side.  Only the sunburnt peasants, with their bronzed faces and bark shoes on their feet, who were mending the road, sat hammering the stones into the burning sand in the sun; while the policemen, in their holland blouses, with revolvers fastened with orange cords, stood melancholy and depressed in the middle of the road, changing from foot to foot; and the tramcars, the horses of which wore holland hoods on their heads, with slits for the ears, kept passing up and down the sunny road with ringing bells.

When Nekhludoff drove up to the prison the gang had not left the yard.  The work of delivering and receiving the prisoners that had commenced at 4 A.M. was still going on.  The gang was to consist of 623 men and 64 women; they had all to be received according to the registry lists.  The sick and the weak to be sorted out, and all to be delivered to the convoy.  The new inspector, with two assistants, the doctor and medical assistant, the officer of the convoy, and the clerk, were sitting in the prison yard at a table covered with writing materials and papers, which was placed in the shade of a wall.  They called the prisoners one by one, examined and questioned them, and took notes.  The rays of the sun had gradually reached the table, and it was growing very hot and oppressive for want of air and because of the breathing crowd of prisoners that stood close by.

“Good gracious, will this never come to an end!” the convoy officer, a tall, fat, red-faced man with high shoulders, who kept puffing the smoke, of his cigarette into his thick moustache, asked, as he drew in a long puff.  “You are killing me.  From where have you got them all?  Are there many more?” the clerk inquired.

“Twenty-four men and the women.”

“What are you standing there for?  Come on,” shouted the convoy officer to the prisoners who had not yet passed the revision, and who stood crowded one behind the other.  The prisoners had been standing there more than three hours, packed in rows in the full sunlight, waiting their turns.

While this was going on in the prison yard, outside the gate, besides the sentinel who stood there as usual with a gun, were drawn up about 20 carts, to carry the luggage of the prisoners and such prisoners as were too weak to walk, and a group of relatives and friends waiting to see the prisoners as they came out and to exchange a few words if a chance presented itself and to give them a few things.  Nekhludoff took his place among the group.  He had stood there about an hour when the clanking of chains, the noise of footsteps, authoritative voices, the sound of coughing, and the low murmur of a large crowd became audible.