On everything is written the death sentence
of the imperial doomster. Quicker, Petro;
quicker through this horrible desert! So, we
are in Jakustk.

Where no sun rises, no description can be
given. Forward, Petro! A world without
a sun is too like a grave. The monotony is
too like the dreariness of death. Ha, yonder
the northern light! That is a transient
comfort. On, on, Petro!

After a dreary journey of six weeks, I am
at length in Ochotsk. I deliver my despatches
to the governor, and at the same time make
him acquainted with the object of my voluntary
journey. He is a man suited to his
place. The letter from St. Petersburg from
his son he receives coldly; and, with a
gesture of his hand only, introduces me to his
daughter.

After having read the order, he offers to
accompany me to the dwelling of my friend,
and personally make known to him the
clemency of the Emperor. For, I am the
bearer of an order for my friend's release.

"If it is not a necessary part of your duty
to accompany me, permit me to go alone on
this errand to Count Paul," I say to the
governor. "Be it so," he replies, shaking
his head, and ordering the soldier on guard
to conduct me. The feeling of excitement
with which I walk the short distance to the
hut of the exile almost unmans me. My
heart beats fearfully. Strange figures flash
before my eyes, from which the tears are
falling.

A misgiving, such as I had felt before,
while waiting two days for the order at St
Petersburg, seizes me, but in a greater
degree. I am forced to lean for support on my
guide.

"This is the hut of Count Paul."

I thank him, and he retires.

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon
when I opened the door. The exile of six
years stood before me, half bent and half
clothed, occupied in cleaning the skin of a
sable.

I opened the door in the supposition that
he would not recognise me; but, scarcely had
he looked towards me when he called me by
my name, and I was embracing him. My
tears fell on his garments; a tempest was in
my heart. But his heart remained cold; I
hung on a statue, his arms embraced me
not, his eyes had no tears. Shocked and
astonished, I retreated a step or two and
looked as if to question him. Still indifferent
he returned to his work, as though nothing
particular had happened, and as though I had
been his daily companion. He said, calmly,
"I am preparing my skin for the next
delivery," and said no more. He asked me not,
why I came there; he asked me not, for his
mother, nor his Amalie; he hung over his
work silently—lost.

"Paul! Dear Paul!" I cried, and stretched
my arms towards him. But they fell again,
as he directed a look towards me with a
passionless indifference. Presently he expressed
impatience at my presence. I diverted him
from his work. "I am busy," he said.

The governor came to me as I turned away.
"He has suffered no one to approach him
for more than three months," he said; "he
has even prepared his necessary housekeeping
himself—placing the appointed government
tribute on the door step, in the proper number
and quality—and has now for the last four
weeks been wholly silent. I have suffered
him to have his own way, because I remarked
that he was determined against ever accepting
his freedom, and that no other impression
was left than this pre-conceived idea. He is
so punctual in preparing his tribute, that
with wonderful accuracy the number of his
payment is always full. He has never been
in arrear."

"Still we must make his freedom known
to him," said I.

"If you have not already done so, we can
send him the despatch, or, you can seek him
again to-morrow at this time. The night will,
perhaps, leave a favourable impression on
him."

"Why not early?"

"Because at midnight he goes to the chase,
and does not return until the middle of the
day."

The governor invited me to his house and
table. Although overcome by the journey
and the recent events, I found myself in the
evening at his tea-table.

"I have never been able," said the governor,
"to understand rightly, from the
sentence, the nature of the Count's crime. At
first I numbered him with the state criminals
of the year eighteen hundred and twenty-five;
but lately, from his diary, his youth, and
uncommon privations, I have taken another
view of it, and feel disposed to pity him.
Also, I learn that his father was sent to
America, but that his mother was permitted
to remain in St, Petersburg."

"A year before the death of the Emperor
Alexander," I replied, "the Count and I were
students together at Gottingen. I loved him
with a kind of worship, grounded more on
the rare pre-eminence of his mind than on the
tenderness of his heart. We had the fairest
hopes from his industry and talents,
particularly as he did not seem disposed to enter
into the revolutionary spirit of Hungary, but
hoped to strive in some other way for that
oppressed country. He distinguished himself
in every branch of knowledge, from the
tangled system of philosophy to the obscure
researches of philology; and in active
gymnastic exercises he was ever the example and
model of his schoolfellows. He bestowed upon
me in a great measure his confidence and
regard; I can hardly say his friendship.
Shortly before the death of the Emperor, his
father recalled him to St. Petersburg; and