A sleepless, wearisome journey in the train. The wheels roll on with a
measured, jarring sound. Stops are made. How slow it all is! How
agonizing! If only it would be quicker, quicker!
Or were it better to wish that time should be arrested? That its huge,
shaggy wings outspread and flapping above the world should suddenly
become motionless? That its owlish glance should be stilled for ever in
the instant just before the terrible word is said?
They reach their destination in the morning. At the station, a dirty,
dejected place, they are met by a cousin of Natasha’s, an attorney by
profession. From his pale, worried face, they guess that everything is
over.
He talks quickly and incoherently. He comforts them with hopes in which
he himself does not believe. The trial had been held early that
morning. Boris and both his comrades—all of the same green youth—had
been sentenced to die by hanging. The court would entertain no appeal.
The only hope lay in the district general. He was really not a bad man
at heart. Perhaps, by imploring, he might be induced to lighten the
sentence to that of hard labour for an indefinite period.
Poor mothers! What is it they implore?