air and exercises, his appetite was very good,-it was difficult for
him to control it, and he ate everything that was brought to him. Then
he began to manage differently-before starting to eat he would pour
out half into the pail, and this seemed to work. A dull drowsiness and
faintness came over him.

"I'll show you what I can do!" he threatened his body, and at the same
time sadly, yet tenderly he felt his flabby, softened muscles with his
hand.

Soon, however, his body grew accustomed to this regime as well, and
the fear of death appeared again-not so keen, nor so burning, but more
disgusting, somewhat akin to a nauseating sensation. "It's because
they are dragging it out so long," thought Sergey. "It would be a good
idea to sleep all the time till the day of the execution," and he
tried to sleep as much as possible. At first he succeeded, but later,
either because he had slept too much, or for some other reason,
insomnia appeared. And with it came eager, penetrating thoughts and a
longing for life.

"I am not afraid of this devil!" he thought of Death. "I simply feel
sorry for my life. It is a splendid thing, no matter what the
pessimists say about it. What if they were to hang a pessimist? Ah, I
feel sorry for life, very sorry! And why does my beard grow now? It
didn't grow before, but suddenly it grows-why?"

He shook his head mournfully, heaving long, painful sighs.
Silence-then a sigh; then a brief silence again-followed by a longer,
deeper sigh.