torture ought to serve still less as proof of his guilt.  Even now I sometimes hear old judges regret the abolition of this barbarous custom.  But in the time of our story no one doubted the necessity of torture, neither the judges nor the accused themselves.  For this reason the Captain’s order did not astonish any of us.  Ignatius went for the Bashkir, and a few minutes later he was brought to the waiting-room.  The Commandant ordered him into the council-room where we were.

The Bashkir crossed the threshold with difficulty, for his feet were shackled.  He took off his high Cossack cap and stood near the door.  I looked at him and shuddered, involuntarily.  Never shall I forget that man; he seemed at least seventy years of age, and had neither nose nor ears.  His head was shaved; a few sparse gray hairs took the place of beard.  He was small of stature, thin and bent; but his Tartar eyes still sparkled.

“Eh! eh!” said the Commandant, who recognized by these terrible signs one of the rebels punished in 1741.  “You are an old wolf, I see; you have already been caught in our snares.  This is not your first offense, for your head is so well planed off.”

The old Bashkir was silent, and looked at the Commandant with an air of complete imbecility.

“Well! why are you silent?” continued the Captain; “do you not understand Russian?  Zoulac, ask him, in your tongue, who sent him into our fortress.”

The Kalmouk repeated in the Tartar language the Captain’s question.  But the Bashkir looked at him with the same expression and without answering a word.

“I will make you answer,” exclaimed the Captain, with a Tartar oath.  “Come, take off his striped dressing-gown, his fool’s garment, and scourge him well.”

Two pensioners commenced to remove the clothing from the shoulders of the old man.  Then, sore distress was vividly depicted on the face of the unfortunate man.  He looked on all sides, like a poor little animal caught by children.  But when one of the pensioners seized his hands to turn them around his neck and lift up the old man on his shoulders; when Zoulac took the rods and raised his hand to strike, then the Bashkir uttered a low, but penetrating moan, and raising his head, opened his mouth, where, in place of a tongue, moved a short stump!

We were still debating, when Basilia rushed breathlessly into the room with a terrified air.  “What has happened to you?” asked the Commandant, surprised.

“Misfortune! misfortune!” replied she.  “A fort was taken this morning; Father Garasim’s boy has just returned.  He saw how it was captured.  The Commandant and all the officers are hanged, all the soldiers made prisoners, and the rebels are coming here.”

This unexpected news made a deep impression on me, for I knew the Commandant of that fortress.  Two months ago, the young man, traveling with his bride coming from Orenbourg, had paid a visit to Captain Mironoff.  The fort he commanded was only twenty-five versts from ours, so that from hour to hour we might expect an attack from Pougatcheff.