he had known. It was not the fear of the issue to his trial that
drove sleep and hunger from him. Death, exile, imprisonment, had been
too long at his heels to be strangers to him or to cause him fear.
In his heart a fire burned. Rosenblatt still lived, and vengeance
had halted in its pursuit.

But deep as was the passion in his heart for vengeance, that for
his country and his cause burned deeper. He had been able to
establish lines of communication between his fatherland and the
new world by means of which the oppressed, the hunted, might reach
freedom and safety. The final touches to his plans were still to be
given. Furthermore, it was necessary that he should make his report
in person, else much of his labour would be fruitless. It was this
that brought him "white nights" and black days.

Every day Paulina called at the jail and waited long hours with
uncomplaining patience in the winter cold, till she could be
admitted. Her husband showed no sign of interest, much less of
gratitude. One question alone, he asked day by day.

"The children are well?"

"They are well," Paulina would answer. "They ask to see you every day."

"They may not see me here," he would reply, after which she would
turn away, her dull face full of patient suffering.

One item of news she brought him that gave him a moment's cheer.

"Kalman," she said, one day, "will speak nothing but Russian."