a false passport and a steady face, beneath the searching eye of
the officials, Heaven only knows! There is no other way of passing
Alexandrowo--of getting in or out of the kingdom of Poland--but by this
route. Before the train is at a standstill at the platform each one
of the long corridor carriages is boarded by a man in the dirty white
trousers, the green tunic and green cap, the top-boots, and the majesty
of Russian law. Here, whatever time of day or night, winter or summer,
it is always as light as day, thanks to an unsparing use of electricity.
There are always sentries on the outer side of the train. The platform
is a prison-yard--the waiting rooms are prison-yards.

With a passport in perfect order, vised for here and there and
everywhere, with good clothes, good luggage, and nothing contraband in
baggage or demeanor, Alexandrowo is easy enough. Obedience and patience
will see the traveller through. There is no fear of his being left
in the huge station, or of his going anywhere but to his avowed and
rightful destination. But with a passport that is old or torn, with a
visa which bears any but a recent date, with a restless eye or a hunted
look, the voyager had better take his chance of dropping from the
footboard at speed, especially if it be a misty night.

Like sheep, the passengers are driven from the train in which not so
much as a newspaper is left. Only the sleeping-car is allowed to go
through, but it is emptied and searched. The travellers are penned
within a large room where the luggage is inspected, and they are
deprived of their passports. When the customs formalities are over they
are allowed to find the refreshment-room, and there console themselves
with weak tea in tumblers until such time as they are released.

The train on this occasion was a full one, and the great