with a sigh: "He will remain for ever a real prisoner and will show them something."
I also made the acquaintance of the other prisoners who had been brought in with Wierzbicki. One of them was called Barabash and was a young, intelligent, good-looking man with black hair and eyes and a dark complexion that gave him the appearance of a creole. After the first hostile contact with his future prison companions, when the old Ivans had beaten and robbed him, Barabash was always in a state of fear, trembling at the slightest disturbance and nervously looking around like a trapped beast.
What was it that shoved this poor man behind the prison bars? His was a short, simple and sad story. He worked as a clerk in a bank, where, during an investigation, it was found that a sum in one of the books was erased and corrected and eleven roubles were missing in the cash. Before the examining magistrate Barabash swore that he never took the money, but this protestation was not enough to clear him. He was committed to prison to await trial and was not allowed any privilege of leaving until his case had been decided.
I really never knew whether Barabash did or did not take these eleven roubles, which proved so tragic for him; but I listened to his insistent oaths that he never stole them and later I witnessed his continuous fright of his surroundings, his burning, scorching shame, his sufferings and finally his death in prison. At his tragic end I had the impression that I saw these eleven tinkling silver coins red with blood, and that in their jingle I heard the words "A crime, a crime!"—but the coins never disclosed who was really the criminal.
All this time that Barabash waited for his trial until death released him, the examining magistrate was in no
