It was the end. Subienkow had travelled a long trail ofbitterness and horror， homing like a dove for the capitalsof Europe， and here， farther away than ever， in RussianAmerica， the trail ceased. He sat in the snow， arms tiedbehind him， waiting the torture. He stared curiouslybefore him at a huge Cossack， prone in the snow， moaningin his pain. The men had finished handling the giant andturned him over to the women. That they exceeded thefiendishness of the men， the man’s cries attested.
Subienkow looked on， and shuddered. He was not afraidto die. He had carried his life too long in his hands， onthat weary trail from Warsaw to Nulato， to shudder atmere dying. But he objected to the torture. It offended hissoul. And this offence， in turn， was not due to the merepain he must endure， but to the sorry spectacle the painwould make of him. He knew that he would pray， andbeg， and entreat， even as Big Ivan and the others that hadgone before. This would not be nice. To pass out bravelyand cleanly， with a smile and a jest—ah！ that would havebeen the way. But to lose control， to have his soul upset bythe pangs of the flesh， to screech and gibber like an ape，to become the veriest beast—ah， that was what was soterrible.
There had been no chance to escape. From the
beginning， when he dreamed the fiery dream of Poland’sindependence， he had become a puppet in the hands ofFate. From the beginning， at Warsaw， at St. Petersburg，in the Siberian mines， in Kamtchatka， on the crazy boatsof the fur-thieves， Fate had been driving him to this end.
Without doubt， in the foundations of the world wasgraved this end for him—for him， who was so fine andsensitive， whose nerves scarcely sheltered under his skin，who was a dreamer， and a poet， and an artist. Before hewas dreamed of， it had been determined that the quiveringbundle of sensitiveness that constituted him should bedoomed to live in raw and howling savagery， and to die inthis far land of night， in this dark place beyond the lastboundaries of the world.
He sighed. So that thing before him was Big Ivan—BigIvan the giant， the man without nerves， the man of iron，the Cossack turned freebooter of the seas， who was asphlegmatic as an ox， with a nervous system so low thatwhat was pain to ordinary men was scarcely a tickle tohim. Well， well， trust these Nulato Indians to find BigIvan’s nerves and trace them to the roots of his quiveringsoul. They were certainly doing it. It was inconceivablethat a man could suffer so much and yet live. Big Ivan waspaying for his low order of nerves. Already he had lastedtwice as long as any of the others.
Subienkow felt that he could not stand the Cossack’ssufferings much longer. Why didn’t Ivan die？ He would gomad if that screaming did not cease. But when it did cease，his turn would come. And there was Yakaga awaiting him，too， grinning at him even now in anticipation—Yakaga，whom only last week he had kicked out of the fort， andupon whose face he had laid the lash of his dog-whip.
Yakaga would attend to him. Doubtlessly Yakaga wassaving for him more refined tortures， more exquisitenerve-racking. Ah！ that must have been a good one，from the way Ivan screamed. The squaws bending overhim stepped back with laughter and clapping of hands.
Subienkow saw the monstrous thing that had beenperpetrated， and began to laugh hysterically. The Indianslooked at him in wonderment that he should laugh. ButSubienkow could not stop.
This would never do. He controlled himself， thespasmodic twitchings slowly dying away. He strove tothink of other things， and began reading back in hisown life. He remembered his mother and his father， andthe little spotted pony， and the French tutor who hadtaught him dancing and sneaked him an old worn copyof Voltaire. Once more he saw Paris， and dreary London，and gay Vienna， and Rome. And once more he saw thatwild group of youths who had dreamed， even as he， thedream of an independent Poland with a king of Polandon the throne at Warsaw. Ah， there it was that the longtrail began. Well， he had lasted longest. One by one，beginning with the two executed at St. Petersburg， hetook up the count of the passing of those brave spirits.
Here one had been beaten to death by a jailer， and there，on that bloodstained highway of the exiles， where theyhad marched for endless months， beaten and maltreatedby their Cossack guards， another had dropped by the way.
Always it had been savagery—brutal， bestial savagery.
They had died—of fever， in the mines， under the knout.
The last two had died after the escape， in the battle withthe Cossacks， and he alone had won to Kamtchatka withthe stolen papers and the money of a traveller he had leftlying in the snow.
It had been nothing but savagery. All the years， with hisheart in studios， and theatres， and courts， he had beenhemmed in by savagery. He had purchased his life withblood. Everybody had killed. He had killed that travellerfor his passports. He had proved that he was a man ofparts by duelling with two Russian officers on a single day.
He had had to prove himself in order to win to a placeamong the fur-thieves. He had had to win to that place.
Behind him lay the thousand-years-long road across allSiberia and Russia. He could not escape that way. The onlyway was ahead， across the dark and icy sea of Bering toAlaska. The way had led from savagery to deeper savagery.
On the scurvy-rotten ships of the fur-thieves， out of foodand out of water， buffeted by the interminable storms ofthat stormy sea， men had become animals. Thrice he hadsailed east from Kamtchatka. And thrice， after all mannerof hardship and suffering， the survivors had come back toKamtchatka. There had been no outlet for escape， and hecould not go back the way he had come， for the mines andthe knout awaited him.
Again， the fourth and last time， he had sailed east.