But quiet was not soon re-established.  For a long time the women went on disputing and explaining to one another whose fault it all was.  At last the warder and the jailer left the cell, the women grew quieter and began going to bed, and the old woman went to the icon and commenced praying.

“The two jailbirds have met,” the red-haired woman suddenly called out in a hoarse voice from the other end of the shelf beds, accompanying every word with frightfully vile abuse.

“Mind you don’t get it again,” Korableva replied, also adding words of abuse, and both were quiet again.

“Had I not been stopped I’d have pulled your damned eyes out,” again began the red-haired one, and an answer of the same kind followed from Korableva.  Then again a short interval and more abuse.  But the intervals became longer and longer, as when a thunder-cloud is passing, and at last all was quiet.

All were in bed, some began to snore; and only the old woman, who always prayed a long time, went on bowing before the icon and the deacon’s daughter, who had got up after the warder left, was pacing up and down the room again.  Maslova kept thinking that she was now a convict condemned to hard labour, and had twice been reminded of this—­once by Botchkova and once by the red-haired woman—­and she could not reconcile herself to the thought.  Korableva, who lay next to her, turned over in her bed.

“There now,” said Maslova in a low voice; “who would have thought it?  See what others do and get nothing for it.”

“Never mind, girl.  People manage to live in Siberia.  As for you, you’ll not be lost there either,” Korableva said, trying to comfort her.

“I know I’ll not be lost; still it is hard.  It’s not such a fate I want—­I, who am used to a comfortable life.”

“Ah, one can’t go against God,” said Korableva, with a sigh.  “One can’t, my dear.”

“I know, granny.  Still, it’s hard.”

They were silent for a while.

“Do you hear that baggage?” whispered Korableva, drawing Maslova’s attention to a strange sound proceeding from the other end of the room.

This sound was the smothered sobbing of the red-haired woman.  The red-haired woman was crying because she had been abused and had not got any of the vodka she wanted so badly; also because she remembered how all her life she had been abused, mocked at, offended, beaten.  Remembering this, she pitied herself, and, thinking no one heard her, began crying as children cry, sniffing with her nose and swallowing the salt tears.

“I’m sorry for her,” said Maslova.

“Of course one is sorry,” said Korableva, “but she shouldn’t come bothering.”

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE LEAVEN AT WORK—­NEKHLUDOFF’S DOMESTIC CHANGES.

The next morning Nekhludoff awoke, conscious that something had happened to him, and even before he had remembered what it was he knew it to be something important and good.