The Commandant decided to examine the Corporal that same day, but he had escaped, no doubt, by the aid of his brother Cossacks.  Another event increased the Captain’s uneasiness.  A Bashkir was seized bearing seditious letters.  Upon this occasion, the Commandant decided to call at once a council, and in order to do so, wished to send away his wife under some specious pretext.  But as Mironoff was the simplest and most truthful of men, he could think of no other device than that already employed.

“You see, Basilia,” said he, coughing several times, “Father Garasim has, it is said, been to the city—­”

“Silence! silence!” interrupted his wife; “you are going to call another council and talk in my absence of Imiliane Pougatcheff, but this time you can not deceive me.”

The Captain stared; “Eh! well! my dear,” said he, “since you know all, stay; we may as well speak before you.”

“You cannot play the fox,” said his wife; “send for the officers.”

We assembled again.  The Commandant read, before his wife, Pougatcheff’s proclamation, written by some half-educated Cossack.  The brigand declared to us his intention of marching directly upon our fortress, inviting the Cossacks and soldiers to join him, and advising the chiefs not to resist, threatening, in that case, extremest torture.  The proclamation was written in vulgar but energetic terms, and must have produced an impression upon simple-minded people.

“What a rascal!” exclaimed the Captain’s wife.  “Just see what he proposes.  To go out and meet him and lay our flags at his feet.  Ah! the son of a dog!  He does not know that we have been forty years in service, and that, thank God, we have seen all sorts of military life.  Is it possible to find a Commandant cowardly enough to obey this robber?”

“It ought not to be,” replied the Captain, “but it is said that the villain has taken possession of several fortress.”

“It appears he is quite strong,” said Alexis.

“We shall instantly know his real force,” continued the Commandant; “Basilia, give me the key of the garret.  Ignatius, bring the Bashkir here, and tell Zoulac to bring the rods.”

“Wait a little, my dear,” said the Commandant’s wife, leaving her seat; “let me take Marie out of the house, or else she will hear the screams and be frightened.  And, to tell the truth, I am, myself, not very curious about such investigations.  Until I see you again, adieu.”

Torture was then so rooted in the customs of justice, that the humane Ukase of Catherine II, who had ordered its abolition, remained long without effect.  It was thought that the confession of the accused was indispensable to his condemnation, an idea not only unreasonable, but contrary to the most simple good sense in matters of jurisprudence; for if the denial of the accused is not accepted as proof of his innocence, the confession which is torn from him by