"Well, my friend, you may want it or not, that's your affair," replied
the chief warden indifferently. "Instead of talking nonsense, you had
better arrange your affairs. You still have something."

"He has nothing. One shirt and a suit of clothes. And a fur cap! A
sport!"

Thus time passed until Thursday. And on Thursday, at midnight a number
of people entered Yanson's cell, and one man, with shoulder-straps,
said:

"Well, get ready. We must go."

Yanson, moving slowly and drowsily as before, put on everything he had
and tied his muddy-red muffler about his neck. The man with
shoulder-straps, smoking a cigarette, said to some one while watching
Yanson dress:

"What a warm day this will be. Real spring."

Yanson's small eyes were closing; he seemed to be falling asleep, and
he moved so slowly and stiffly that the warden cried to him:

"Hey, there! Quicker! Have you fallen asleep?"

Suddenly Yanson stopped.

"I don't want to be hanged," said he.