one to five years is made to his period of exile. Perhaps

the isprávnik Známenski reported that Dr. Martínof was "insubordinate"; and very likely he was insubordinate. He certainly had grievances enough to make him so. One pe- culiarly exasperating thing happened to him almost in my presence. There is an administrative regulation in force in most Siberian penal settlements, requiring political exiles to appear at the police-station daily, semi-weekly, or weekly, and sign their names in a register. The intention, apparently, is to render escapes more difficult by forcing the exile to come, at short intervals, to the local authorities, and say, "I am still here; I have n't escaped." And as a proof that he has n't escaped they make him sign his name in a book. It is a stupid regulation; it affords no security whatever against escapes; it is intensely humiliating to the personal pride of the exile, especially if the authorities happen to be brutal, drunken, or depraved men; and it causes more heartburn- ing and exasperation than any other regulation in the whole exile code.

One morning about a week after our arrival in Minusínsk I was sitting in the house of Ivánchin-Písaref, when the door opened and Dr. Martínof came in. For a moment I hardly recognized him. His eyes had a strained expression, his face was colorless, his lips trembled, and he was evidently struggling with deep and strong emotion.

"What has happened?" cried Mrs. Ivánchin-Písaref, rising as if to go to him.

"The isprávnik has ordered Márya [his wife] to come to the police-station," he replied.

For an instant I did not catch the significance of this fact, nor understand why it should so excite him. A few words of explanation, however, made the matter clear. Mrs. Martínof was in hourly expectation of her confinement. I remembered, when I thought of it, that only the night before I had had an engagement to spend the evening at Dr. Martínof's house, and that he had sent me word not