A month later, after the case, which was committed for trial by court-martial, had ended in eight men being sentenced to hard labour, and in two—­the old man with the white beard, and the gipsy boy, as she called the other—­being condemned to be hanged, Natalia felt vaguely uneasy.  But unpleasant doubts soon pass away under the solemnity of a trial.  Since such high authorities considered that this was the right thing to do, it must be right.

The execution was to take place in the village itself.  One Sunday Malania came home from church in her new dress and her new boots, and announced to her mistress that the gallows were being erected, and that the hangman was expected from Moscow on Wednesday.  She also announced that the families of the convicts were raging, and that their cries could be heard all over the village.

Natalia Ivanovna did not go out of her house; she did not wish to see the gallows and the people in the village; she only wanted what had to happen to be over quickly.  She only considered her own feelings, and did not care for the convicts and their families.

On Tuesday the village constable called on Natalia Ivanovna.  He was a friend, and she offered him vodka and preserved mushrooms of her own making.  The constable, after eating a little, told her that the execution was not to take place the next day.

“Why?”

“A very strange thing has happened.  There is no hangman to be found.  They had one in Moscow, my son told me, but he has been reading the Gospels a good deal and says:  ‘I will not commit a murder.’  He had himself been sentenced to hard labour for having committed a murder, and now he objects to hang when the law orders him.  He was threatened with flogging.  ‘You may flog me,’ he said, ‘but I won’t do it.’”

Natalia Ivanovna grew red and hot at the thought which suddenly came into her head.

“Could not the death sentence be commuted now?”

“How so, since the judges have passed it?  The Czar alone has the right of amnesty.”

“But how would he know?”

“They have the right of appealing to him.”

“But it is on my account they are to die,” said that stupid woman, Natalia Ivanovna.  “And I forgive them.”

The constable laughed.  “Well—­send a petition to the Czar.”

“May I do it?”

“Of course you may.”

“But is it not too late?”

“Send it by telegram.”

“To the Czar himself?”

“To the Czar, if you like.”

The story of the hangman having refused to do his duty, and preferring to take the flogging instead, suddenly changed the soul of Natalia Ivanovna.  The pity and the horror she felt the moment she heard that the peasants were sentenced to death, could not be stifled now, but filled her whole soul.

“Filip Vassilievich, my friend.  Write that telegram for me.  I want to appeal to the Czar to pardon them.”