as well as on his blue shirt, were stains of clotted blood, which had turned black save for a few red spots here and there.  A woman stood close to the wall, so wrapped up in shawls that her face could scarcely be seen.  Motionless she gazed at the aquiline nose, the upturned feet, and the protruding eyeballs; sobbing and sighing, and drying her tears at long, regular intervals.  A pretty girl of thirteen was standing at her mother’s side, with her eyes and mouth wide open.  A boy of eight clung to his mother’s skirt, and looked intensely at his dead father without blinking.

From a door near them an official, an officer, a doctor, and a clerk with documents, entered.  After them came a soldier, the one who had shot the man.  He stepped briskly along behind his superiors, but the instant he saw the corpse he went suddenly pale, and quivered; and dropping his head stood still.  When the official asked him whether that was the man who was escaping across the frontier, and at whom he had fired, he was unable to answer.  His lips trembled, and his face twitched.  “The s—­s—­s—­” he began, but could not get out the words which he wanted to say.  “The same, your excellency.”  The officials looked at each other and wrote something down.

“You see the beneficial results of that same system!”

In a room of sumptuous vulgarity two men sat drinking wine.  One of them was old and grey, the other a young Jew.  The young Jew was holding a roll of bank-notes in his hand, and was bargaining with the old man.  He was buying smuggled goods.

“You’ve got ’em cheap,” he said, smiling.

“Yes—­but the risk—­”

“This is indeed terrible,” said the young Tsar; “but it cannot be avoided.  Such proceedings are necessary.”

His companion made no response, saying merely, “Let us move on,” and laid his hand again on the head of the Tsar.  When the Tsar recovered consciousness, he was standing in a small room lit by a shaded lamp.  A woman was sitting at the table sewing.  A boy of eight was bending over the table, drawing, with his feet doubled up under him in the armchair.  A student was reading aloud.  The father and daughter of the family entered the room noisily.

“You signed the order concerning the sale of spirits,” said the guide to the Tsar.

“Well?” said the woman.

“He’s not likely to live.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“They’ve kept him drunk all the time.”

“It’s not possible!” exclaimed the wife.

“It’s true.  And the boy’s only nine years old, that Vania Moroshkine.”

“What did you do to try to save him?” asked the wife.

“I tried everything that could be done.  I gave him an emetic and put a mustard-plaster on him.  He has every symptom of delirium tremens.”

“It’s no wonder—­the whole family are drunkards.  Annisia is only a little better than the rest, and even she is generally more or less drunk,” said the daughter.