CHAPTER VI
THE HOURS ARE RUSHING


On the fortress where the condemned terrorists were imprisoned there
was a steeple with an old-fashioned clock upon it. At every hour, at
every half-hour, and at every quarter-hour the clock rang out in
long-drawn, mournful chimes, slowly melting high in the air, like the
distant and plaintive call of migrating birds. In the daytime, this
strange and sad music was lost in the noise of the city, of the wide
and crowded street which passed near the fortress. The cars buzzed
along, the hoofs of the horses beat upon the pavements, the rocking
automobiles honked in the distance, peasant izvozchiks had come
especially from the outskirts of the city for the Shrovetide season
and the tinkling of the bells upon the necks of their little horses
filled the air. The prattle of voices-an intoxicated, merry Shrovetide
prattle of voices arose everywhere. And in the midst of these various
noises there was the young thawing spring, the muddy pools on the
meadows, the trees of the squares which had suddenly become black.
>From the sea a warm breeze was blowing in broad, moist gusts. It was
almost as if one could have seen the tiny fresh particles of air
carried away, merged into the free, endless expanse of the
atmosphere-could have heard them laughing in their flight.

At night the street grew quiet in the lonely light of the large,
electric sun. And then, the enormous fortress, within whose walls
there was not a single light, passed into darkness and silence,