The Consequennce.

THE CELL DOOR SLAMMED BEHIND RUBASHOV. He remained leaning against the door for a few seconds, and

lit a cigarette. On the bed to his right lay two fairly clean blankets, and the straw mattress looked newly filled. The

wash-basin to his left had no plug, but the tap functioned. The can next to it had been freshly disinfected, it did not smell.

The walls on both sides were of solid brick, which would stifle the sound of tapping, but where the heating and drain pipe

penetrated it, it had been plastered and resounded quite well; besides, the heating pipe itself seemed to be noise-conducting.

The window started at eye-level; one could see down into the courtyard without having to pull oneself up by the bars. So

far everything was in order.

He yawned, took his coat off, rolled it up and put it on the mattress as a pillow. He looked out into the yard. The snow

shimmered yellow in the double light of the moon and the electric lanterns. All round the yard, along the walls, a narrow

track had been cleared for the daily exercise. Dawn had not yet appeared; the stars still shone clear and frostily, in spite of

the lanterns. On the rampart of the outside wall, which lay opposite Rubashov's cell, a soldier with slanted rifle was

marching the hundred steps up and down; he stamped at every step as if on parade. From time to time the yellow light of

the lanterns flashed on his bayonet.

Rubashov took his shoes off, still standing at the window. He put out his cigarette, laid the stump on the floor at the end of

his bedstead, and remained sitting on the mattress for a few minutes. He went back to the window once more. The

courtyard was still; the sentry was just turning; above the machine-gun tower he saw a streak of the Milky Way.

Rubashov stretched himself on the bunk and wrapped himself in the top blanket. It was five o'clock and it was unlikely

that one had to get up here before seven in winter. He was very sleepy and, thinking it over, decided that he would hardly

be brought up for examination for another three or four days. He took his pince-nez off, laid it on the stone-paved floor

next the cigarette stump, smiled and shut his eyes. He was warmly wrapped up in the blanket, and felt protected; for the

first time in months he was not afraid of his dreams. When a few minutes later the warder turned the light off from

outside, and looked through the spy-hole into his cell, Rubashov, ex-Commissar of the People, slept, his back turned to the

wall, with his head on his outstretched left arm, which stuck stiffly out of the bed; only the hand on the end of it hung

loosely and twitched in his sleep.