From inside the cell came the sound of bustle and women's voices,
and the patter of bare feet on the floor.
"Now, then, hurry up, Maslova, I say!" called out the jailer, and
in a minute or two a small young woman with a very full bust came
briskly out of the door and went up to the jailer. She had on a
grey cloak over a white jacket and petticoat. On her feet she
wore linen stockings and prison shoes, and round her head was
tied a white kerchief, from under which a few locks of black hair
were brushed over the forehead with evident intent. The face of
the woman was of that whiteness peculiar to people who have lived
long in confinement, and which puts one in mind of shoots of
potatoes that spring up in a cellar. Her small broad hands and
full neck, which showed from under the broad collar of her cloak,
were of the same hue. Her black, sparkling eyes, one with a
slight squint, appeared in striking contrast to the dull pallor
of her face.
She carried herself very straight, expanding her full bosom.
With her head slightly thrown back, she stood in the corridor,
looking straight into the eyes of the jailer, ready to comply
with any order.
The jailer was about to lock the door when a wrinkled and
severe-looking old woman put out her grey head and began speaking
to Maslova. But the jailer closed the door, pushing the old
woman's head with it. A woman's laughter was heard from the cell,
and Maslova smiled, turning to the little grated opening in the
cell door. The old woman pressed her face to the grating from the
other side, and said, in a hoarse voice: "Now mind, and when they begin questioning you, just repeat over
the same thing, and stick to it; tell nothing that is not
wanted."
"Well, it could not be worse than it is now, anyhow; I only wish
it was settled one way or another."
"Of course, it will be settled one way or another," said the
jailer, with a superior's self-assured witticism. "Now, then, get
along! Take your places!"
The old woman's eyes vanished from the grating, and Maslova
stepped out into the middle of the corridor. The warder in front,
they descended the stone stairs, past the still fouler, noisy
cells of the men's ward, where they were followed by eyes looking
out of every one of the gratings in the doors, and entered the
office, where two soldiers were waiting to escort her. A clerk
who was sitting there gave one of the soldiers a paper reeking of
tobacco, and pointing to the prisoner, remarked, "Take her."
The soldier, a peasant from Nijni Novgorod, with a red,
pock-marked face, put the paper into the sleeve of his coat,
winked to his companion, a broad-shouldered Tchouvash, and then
the prisoner and the soldiers went to the front entrance, out of
the prison yard, and through the town up the middle of the
roughly-paved street.