Then the master on the floor turned, the cook thundered upon the door
with the oven-fork, breaking it open, and Yanson ran away into the
fields. He was caught an hour later, kneeling down behind the corner
of the barn, striking one match after another, which would not ignite,
in an attempt to set the place on fire.

A few days later the master died of blood poisoning, and Yanson, when
his turn among other robbers and murderers came, was tried and
condemned to death. In court he was the same as always; a little man,
freckled, with sleepy, glassy eyes. It seemed as if he did not
understand in the least the meaning of what was going on about him; he
appeared to be entirely indifferent. He blinked his white eyelashes,
stupidly, without curiosity; examined the sombre, unfamiliar
courtroom, and picked his nose with his hard, shriveled, unbending
finger. Only those who had seen him on Sundays at church would have
known that he had made an attempt to adorn himself. He wore on his
neck a knitted, muddy-red shawl, and in places had dampened the hair
of his head. Where the hair was wet it lay dark and smooth, while on
the other side it stuck up in light and sparse tufts, like straws upon
a hail-beaten, wasted meadow.

When the sentence was pronounced- death by hanging-Yanson suddenly
became agitated. He reddened deeply and began to tie and untie the
shawl about his neck as though it were choking him. Then he waved his
arms stupidly and said, turning to the judge who had not read the
sentence, and pointing with his finger at the judge who read it:

"He said that I should be hanged."

"Who do you mean?" asked the presiding judge, who had pronounced the