stages of all kinds of disease, and Sigismund, who had been in
confinement too short a time to look as ill as the others, did not
receive much attention. Certainly, the doctor admitted, his lungs
were affected; probably the sudden change of climate and the lack of
good food and fresh air had been too much for him; so the solemn
farce ended, and he was left to his fate. "If I were indeed a
Nihilist, and suffered for a cause which I had at heart," he
telegraphed to Valerian, "I could bear it better. But to be kept
here for an imaginary offence, to bear cold and hunger and illness
all to no purpose--that beats me. There can't be a God, or such
things would not be allowed."

"To me it seems," said Valerian, "that we are the victims of
violated law. Others have shown tyranny, or injustice, or cruelty,
and we are the victims of their sin. Don't say there is no God.
There must be a God to avenge such hideous wrong."

So they spoke to each other through their prison wall as men in the
free outer world seldom care to speak; and I, who knew no barriers,
looked now on Valerian's gaunt figure, and brave but prematurely old
face, now on poor Zaluski, who, in his weary imprisonment, had
wasted away till one could scarcely believe that he was indeed the
same lithe, active fellow who had played tennis at Mrs. Courtenay's
garden-party.

Day and night Valerian listened to the terrible cough which came
from the adjoining cell. It became perfectly apparent to him that
his friend was dying; he knew it as well as if he had seen the
burning hectic flush on his hollow cheeks, and heard the panting,
hurried breaths, and watched the unnatural brilliancy of his dark