Subienkow felt that he could not stand the Cossack’s sufferings much longer.  Why didn’t Ivan die?  He would go mad if that screaming did not cease.  But when it did cease, his turn would come.  And there was Yakaga awaiting him, too, grinning at him even now in anticipation—­Yakaga, whom only last week he had kicked out of the fort, and upon whose face he had laid the lash of his dog-whip.  Yakaga would attend to him.  Doubtlessly Yakaga was saving for him more refined tortures, more exquisite nerve-racking.  Ah! that must have been a good one, from the way Ivan screamed.  The squaws bending over him stepped back with laughter and clapping of hands.  Subienkow saw the monstrous thing that had been perpetrated, and began to laugh hysterically.  The Indians looked at him in wonderment that he should laugh.  But Subienkow could not stop.

This would never do.  He controlled himself, the spasmodic twitchings slowly dying away.  He strove to think of other things, and began reading back in his own life.  He remembered his mother and his father, and the little spotted pony, and the French tutor who had taught him dancing and sneaked him an old worn copy of Voltaire.  Once more he saw Paris, and dreary London, and gay Vienna, and Rome.  And once more he saw that wild group of youths who had dreamed, even as he, the dream of an independent Poland with a king of Poland on the throne at Warsaw.  Ah, there it was that the long trail began.  Well, he had lasted longest.  One by one, beginning with the two executed at St. Petersburg, he took up the count of the passing of those brave spirits.  Here one had been beaten to death by a jailer, and there, on that bloodstained highway of the exiles, where they had marched for endless months, beaten and maltreated by their Cossack guards, another had dropped by the way.  Always it had been savagery—­brutal, bestial savagery.  They had died—­of fever, in the mines, under the knout.  The last two had died after the escape, in the battle with the Cossacks, and he alone had won to Kamtchatka with the stolen papers and the money of a traveller he had left lying in the snow.

It had been nothing but savagery.  All the years, with his heart in studios, and theatres, and courts, he had been hemmed in by savagery.  He had purchased his life with blood.  Everybody had killed.  He had killed that traveller for his passports.  He had proved that he was a man of parts by duelling with two Russian officers on a single day.  He had had to prove himself in order to win to a place among the fur-thieves.  He had had to win to that place.  Behind him lay the thousand-years-long road across all Siberia and Russia.  He could not escape that way.  The only way was ahead, across the dark and icy sea of Bering to Alaska.  The way had led from savagery to deeper savagery.  On the scurvy-rotten ships of the fur-thieves, out of food and out of water, buffeted by the interminable storms of that stormy sea, men had become animals.  Thrice he had sailed east from Kamtchatka.  And thrice, after all manner of hardship and suffering, the survivors had come back to Kamtchatka.  There had been no outlet for escape, and he could not go back the way he had come, for the mines and the knout awaited him.