sat with lowered head, his elbows resting on his knees. Hearing steps,
this man raised his head and looked up. In his face and eyes was an
expression of hopeless anguish. He was apparently unconcerned about
who it was that looked into his cell. Whoever it might be, he
evidently hoped for no good from any one. Nekhludoff was seized with
fear, and he hastened to Number 21--Menshov's cell. The warden
unlocked and opened the door. A young, muscular man with a long neck,
kindly, round eyes and small beard, stood beside his cot, hastily
donning his prison coat and, with frightened face, looking at the two
men who had entered. Nekhludoff was particularly struck by the kindly,
round eyes whose wondering and startled look ran from him to the
warden and back.

"This gentleman wishes to ask you about your case."

"Thank you."

"Yes, I was told about your case," said Nekhludoff, going into the
depth of the cell and stopping at the barred, dirty window, "and would
like to hear it from yourself."

Menshov also drew near the window and immediately began to relate the
particulars of his case--at first timidly, from time to time glancing
at the warden, then growing bolder and bolder. And when the warden
had left the cell to give some orders, his timidity left him entirely.
Judging by his speech and manner, his was a story of a simple, honest
peasant, and it seemed very strange to Nekhludoff to hear it from the
lips of a prisoner in the garb of disgrace and in prison. While
listening to him, Nekhludoff examined the low cot, with its straw
mattress, the window, with its thick iron bars, the damp, plastered