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When he fully comprehended the diabolical network that had been thrown around him Ivor abandoned hope. His attempts to converse with the Cossack officer were sternly repulsed, and he concluded that it would be wiser to remain silent. He sank down on one of the hard seats, and meditated bitterly on his unjust and cruel fate while the train rattled on through the deepening gloom of the wintry evening.

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CHAPTER IV

The incidents of that long journey, on the first stage of which we have followed the unfortunate victim of Russian injustice, need not be related in detail. When Ivor accidentally discovered the perfidy of his uncle Moscow was already far to the westward. He remained shut up in the closed compartment of the car for nearly a week. Then the line of railway ended, and he was conveyed by sledge across the Ural Mountains, and thence over the frozen surface of Siberia.

Neither pains nor money were spared to hasten the end of his journey. The April thaws caused some delay, but when the roads were passable again the little party traveled day and night in a capacious wagon, making brief stops at posting stations to procure fresh relays of horses. Tiumen was passed, and Irkutsk, and then the dread mines of Kara.

Of the regions through which he was journeying Ivor saw nothing. The curtains of the wagon were always closely drawn, and he was not allowed to leave it for his meals. Conversation was rigorously prohibited, and what he suffered mentally, as each day carried him farther to the east, no pen can describe. The future was black and hopeless, and the past seemed more of a vague dream than a reality.

About the close of July — more than four months from their start — the four Cossacks and their prisoner reached the town of Vladivostok on the Pacific coast. After remaining here a week in solitary confinement Ivor was put on board a Russian steamship, still attended by his escort, and the vessel forged away to the north. Three days later it entered the bay of Aniva, and from the deck Ivor had a glimpse of the bleak hills and craggy mountains of the island of Saghalien — that desolate "No Man's Land" of far Cathay.

He never forgot the hopeless misery that filled his heart when he walked the gangplank and put foot on the landing pier at Karsokov. He seemed to have reached another world. It was eventide, and the little town, built on the slope of a long hill, presented a quaint oriental appearance as the setting sun's rays touched the minarets and bell towers that peeped above the rich foliage. The arrival of the steamer had brought many of the inhabitants to the pier. Giliaks and Oros from the interior mingled freely with almond eyed immigrants from Japan and China. A group of convicts, fresh from their evening bath, filed by, and the white capped Russian soldiers in charge turned their heads to stare stolidly at Ivor.

The crowd halted as the four Cossacks advanced, marching in double file, with their prisoner between them. They trudged up the sloping street, passing successively the chapel, the mill, the residence of the military commandant, the barracks, the workshops, the governor's house, and the offices. These were built mostly of wood, and before some of them stood brass cannon. Last of all the prison was reached — a low, spacious building of logs, standing on the very crest of the eminence, and facing the blue waters of Aniva Bay. Alongside of it was the gibbet, a dreaded and perpetual menace to the convict population of Karsokov.

As the guards halted the little party for a moment, an incident occurred that changed the current of Ivor's thoughts, and gave him a deeper realization of his misery. Along the road that led by the prison to the town came a fair young girl. Her age could not have been more than eighteen. A gown of delicate blue fabric, evidently made by no provincial modiste, showed the outlines of her graceful figure. Her cheeks were rosy with the bloom of health. By her side walked a young Russian officer, laden with the spoils of the expedition from which they were returning — bunches of gayly colored flowers and a bark basket filled with wild strawberries.

As the couple passed the prison gates the girl turned her deep blue eyes on Ivor. With womanly intuition she was quick to recognize, beneath his convict garb and the matted beard on his cheeks, the trace of gentle birth and breeding. Her gaze rested on him only an instant, but it was long enough for Ivor to read sympathy and regret for his misfortune. His face crimsoned with shame and confusion, and he felt his degradation as tie had never felt it before.

"She takes me for some poor wretch stained with blood and crime," he muttered. "Oh! if she only knew the truth!"

As he watched her retreating figure with emotions that nearly choked him, he was dragged away and hustled roughly through the arched entrance of the prison. A moment later he was locked into a large cell, so well furnished and lighted that he concluded his confinement here would be only temporary.

In the morning two of the prison guards entered his cell, and exchanged his travel worn garments for a new outfit of the same material and cut. Then breakfast was served, and an hour later two distinguished visitors arrived — Colonel Riskin, the governor of Saghalien, and Captain Komaroff, the military commandant. The former was an elderly man, with a vigorous, erect figure and a smooth shaven face. Captain Komaroff was in the prime of life. He wore his yellow beard parted in the middle, German fashion, and a thin mustache scarcely concealed the resolute set of his lips. Like most Russian officials, he was a rigid martinet. He allowed nothing to influence his sense of duty and his stern observance of discipline.

Ivor had long dreamed of such an opportunity. For the first time since his arrest he was face to face with an official of influence. A ray of hope entered his heart, and he determined to make the most of his chance.

The object of the visit was soon made known. The governor briefly informed Ivor that a St. Petersburg tribunal had found him guilty of conspiring against the life of the Czar, and had sentenced him to twenty years' penal servitude on the island of Saghalien. He added a few words of advice relating to the strict observance of the prison rules, and then formally delivered Ivor into the custody of Captain Komaroff.

This direct confirmation of his own suspicions staggered Ivor for a moment, but he recovered in time to appeal for a hearing, and without waiting for permission he began to explain the infamous plot that had caused his ruin. The knowledge of what was at stake enabled him to speak coherently, but before he could reach the vital parts of his narrative he was harshly commanded to stop. The governor and the commandant seemed dumfounded at such audacity on the part of a prisoner, and to enforce their orders they summoned two of the guards from the corridor.

Frantic at the ruin of his last hope Ivor persisted in speaking. He denounced in the most violent terms Maximy Petrov and Feodor Gunsberg, and begged pitifully for a hearing — for an investigation of his charges. When he saw the blended anger and incredulity on the faces of his auditors he became confused and incoherent, and lost control of himself.

"I am as innocent as either of you," he cried indignantly. "I am the victim of a vile conspiracy. I demand my release. The Russian government will repent this outrage."

His speech was cut off as the guards threw themselves upon him, and forced him against the wall.

"Put him in close confinement," directed Captain Komaroff. "He will come to his senses by and by. Hark you now," he added, addressing Ivor, "refractory prisoners have a hard time of it here, and I advise you to stick closely to the rules. Silence is the most important. There must be no more such outbreaks. It is useless for you to persist in this story of yours. You need not expect any one to listen or to believe you. Your punishment will be severe if you disobey. I have special instructions concerning you, and I intend to follow them to the letter. I warn you that I am no easy taskmaster."

Captain Komaroff nodded to the guards, and Ivor was dragged, still struggling, into the corridor, and thence to a narrow, gloomy cell, far different from his other place of confinement.

The next three weeks were a blank in Ivor's memory. He lay in the prison hospital during that time, tossing and moaning in the delirium of fever. Then he came back to consciousness, and during the tedious period of convalescence he had plenty of time to think over his situation. Remembering Captain Komaroff's words he wisely concluded to obey the prison rules. Nothing could be gained by disobedience, while with patience he might some day find a means of escape, or, better still, an opportunity of telling his story to some influential person who would believe and help him.

The hope of these two contingencies was too slight to be of much comfort. Ivor was stolidly resigned to his fate when he left the hospital early in September. With the exception of one incident, the past seemed years behind him. The beautiful face of the young Russian girl he had seen on landing was as clear to his mind as though it were only yesterday she had passed him at the prison gates with that swift glance of pity and sympathy. He could not forget her, and he did not wish to. The remembrance was one bright spot in his barren existence.

Ivor's daily routine' differed in no wise from that of the other prisoners. He toiled a certain number of hours in the workshop, learning to make shoes under the watchful eyes of the guard. His meals consisted of black bread and soup, with sometimes a scanty dole of meat or fish. He occupied a solitary cell at night, and once a week he was taken down to the sea to bathe. His companions — with whom all intercourse was forbidden — were criminals of the lowest type. The governor and the commandant he saw infrequently, and then only at a distance.

Thus the days merged into weeks, and the month of November brought a change which was destined to wield a strange and powerful influence in Ivor's life.

Saghalien is a long, narrow island lying north of Japan, and close to the shores of Asiatic Russia — an offshoot of Siberia, in fact. It formerly belonged to Japan, but was ceded to Russia in 1860. It is nearly six hundred miles in length, and in some places more than one hundred in width. The climate is severe, and at all times the winds are bleak. On the western shore the valleys are covered with grass, and there are heavy forests of pine, birch, oak, larch, and maple. Various animals abound, and the rivers are full of fish. A few survivors of the original native tribes live inland. The Russian settlements, mainly penal colonies, are exclusively in the south. The convicts sent here are supposed to be low grade malefactors, but Ivor's case, as we have seen, was an exception to this rule. There was another exception at this time, and one of a similar nature.

In November Ivor was sent to the coal mines at Duli, some twelve miles north of Karsokov. He was not strong enough for such severe work, but that made no difference. The two powerful conspirators in St. Petersburg had doubtless arranged their plans to this end intending that he should succumb to privation and toil long before the expiration of his sentence. At all events Captain Komaroff's orders were imperative, and Ivor had to go.

The mines at Duli had been in operation for some time. They were situated in a mountain range close to the west coast of the island, and were entered, by lateral shafts. In the vicinity were barracks, and a spacious prison capable of holding two or three hundred inmates. The coal dug here was supplied to Russian vessels, and was sold to such foreign ships as visited Karsokov to purchase fish, furs, and seals.

A very short period at the mines satisfied Ivor that a year of such life, at most, was all he would be able to endure. He was compelled to work hard all day, and was scantily clothed and fed. It was winter now, and the cold was so severe that the convicts almost froze in the sleeping kameras at night. The overseer and the Cossack officer in charge were merciless disciplinarians, and cared nothing for the sufferings of the unfortunate prisoners. The severity of the weather made no difference. Through rain and snow the poor fellows had to trudge the distance between the prison and the mines, morning and evening.

It is true that in some respects the discipline was less rigorous than in the workshops at Karsokov. The convicts were not chained, for example, and at night a dozen or more occupied a single kamera. What need was there for sterner measures? Escape was the last thing dreamed of after a long day's toil. Even should some be bold enough to attempt it, where would they find refuge and food in the dead of winter? So the officials reasoned, and long experience had proved the correctness of their theories.

December passed away, and the new year came. The ground lay thick with snow, and drift ice rolled through Perouse Strait. Ivor's lot was not so hard as at first. His loneliness was now mitigated by a strange companionship — by an intimacy with one of his fellow convicts. The eleven men who shared his kamera were mostly blood stained wretches. Among them were three Germans, a Circassian, a Persian, and two Turks. But this one man Ivor had singled out immediately as being of different metal. He was tall and spare, and showed a strength and agility that belied the appearance of old age given by his long white beard and furrowed cheeks. His eyes were as keen and bright as those of a young man.

From the first a tacitly understood bond of sympathy seemed to exist between the two. The stranger's daily tasks were performed in a mechanical way, and at night he sat apart from the others with an abstracted look upon his face that showed him to be brooding over some deep sorrow.

Ivor found himself wondering, more than once, if there could be a similarity between their misfortunes, and his heart warmed toward the lonely old man.

It was Ivor who made the first advances, and though they were received rather coldly, he persevered with little acts of kindness and cheering words until the stranger's stolidity thawed. After that the acquaintance ripened of itself. At night, when the day's work was over, they two would withdraw to the far corner of the kamera, with their rations of tea and black bread, and would converse in low tones until fatigue drove them to their hard beds.

On the subject of the past, however, both were chary of speaking. The old man's name was Gogol, and he confided to Ivor that a cruel act of injustice had brought him to the mines of Saghalien. He had been here three years, he said, and though his sentence was for life, he had hopes of escaping at some future day, and exposing those who had ruined him. He was sixty three years old.