Guilty Bonds

by William Le Queux

Quarter; then a young man hard at work with my penin a tall old house in one of the Inns of Court, burning the midnightoil and striving day and night towards the coveted Temple of Fame.

  Later, a man of ample means, and afterwards--a convict.

  Next morning, after the warder had paid his matutinal visit and I hadappeased my hunger, I naturally turned to the inscriptions as my solemeans of occupation; for besides being anxious for anything wherewith tooccupy my mind, however trivial, I was also curious to ascertain whetherthe mysterious device upon the wall really bore a resemblance to theseal, or whether it was only in my distorted imagination that thesimilarity existed.

  Without difficulty I succeeded in placing my hands upon the indentation,and after minute investigation satisfied myself I had not been mistaken.Though somewhat roughly executed, the symbols were exactly the same asthose upon the fatal seal.

  While carefully following the lines with my finger tips, I felt,suddenly, what appeared to be some letters, two above the circle and twobelow, about an inch from the outer ring. At first it did not cross mymind that they could have any connection with it, for I concluded theywere but the initials of two prisoners who had occupied the cell.

  However, when I had completed my investigation of the inexplicableemblem which had so long occupied my thoughts, I commenced trying todecipher the letters above.

  At first I could make nothing out of them, but by passing my handcarelessly along I ascertained that they were in the Russian character.

  Evidently they were initials.

  Fortunately, while at college I had gained a knowledge of the Russianalphabet, and though it was rather imperfect, I was prompted to make anattempt to discover the equivalent of the two letters in English.

  The task occupied me a very long time, and after considerable patienceand perseverance I found I had translated the initials, although theytold me nothing.

  The two letters cut in the stone above were "N.S."

  I stood motionless for a few minutes, almost unable to give credence tothe solution of the puzzle; then went carefully over the two signsagain.

  No; I was not mistaken.

  "N.S.," I repeated to myself aloud, almost breathless with amazement, myheart beating quickly, and sounding distinctly in the tomb-like silenceof my dungeon. "The initials of some unfortunate man who perhaps, likemyself, was confined here for some crime he did not commit."

  Whose was the hand that traced the deadly sign, and the initials? Thiswas the question I vainly asked myself.

  "Perhaps the letters below will throw some light upon this ghastlysecret," I said aloud, as I commenced to feel the two charactersunderneath the design. They were well-shaped and deeply cut, so I hadnot so much difficulty as with those above.

  "I may be about to solve the enigma of the seal," I reflected, as, inintense excitement, I took one letter after the other and thought of itscorresponding letter in English.

  I soon deciphered them, and found the initials were "S.O."

  The discovery caused me much disappointment, for beyond the assumptionthat a certain person whose initials were N.S. had been imprisoned inthe cell, together, perhaps, with a comrade whose initials were S.O.,who had possibly sketched the obscure hieroglyphics, I was no nearer thesolution of the device than before.

  It might have been inscribed a dozen, perhaps a hundred, years ago--before the seal had become synonymous of death--for aught I knew.

  So intent was I in endeavouring to feel other names or devices near thisparticular one that I failed to notice the opening of my cell door, andwhen I became aware of the lantern-light behind me I turned and saw aCossack officer standing upon the threshold.

  He stepped forward and was about to enter, but suddenly, as if on secondthought, he drew back and pulled up the broad collar of his riding-coatabout his neck, so as to partially hide his face before entering.

  Advancing, and turning the lamplight full upon my face, he gazed into itfixedly for several seconds, his own countenance being concealed by theshadow. Then, without speaking, he went across the cell and commencedexamining the wall, apparently to ascertain in what pursuit I wasengaged when he entered.

  He cast his eyes along the wall, when he suddenly gave vent to a lowexclamation of profound surprise, not unmingled with horror, and holdinghis lantern on a level with the inscription, scrutinised it minutely forsome minutes, at the same time muttering to himself.

  From his movements, and the agitation which he strove to suppress, itwas evident he, too, had made a startling discovery; and I stoodwondering what there was about it that interested him so much.

  He looked at me several times, and though his face was always in theshade I could see that in his eyes was a peculiar expression. Twice hereturned and examined the inscription, as if to rivet it upon his memoryand to satisfy himself he was not mistaken; then he turned, and,addressing me in French, said:

  "Prisoner, prepare yourself. We start to-morrow."

  "To Siberia?" I asked.

  "Yes; make the best of your last night's rest," he replied in a strangehoarse voice, and went out, leaving me again to my gloomy reflections.

  For hours I sat, asking myself what this could mean. The initials, inconjunction with the seal, served to increase the mystery, and theagitation of the officer when his gaze fell upon it clearly showed thegrim symbol was repulsive to him, although the cruel light in his eyescaused me to conjecture that it revealed to him some awful truth thathad hitherto been hidden.

  But why need I exercise my mind upon trying to solve this inscrutableproblem, I thought, when on the morrow I should start upon my terriblejourney to the grave?

  Ay, what was the use?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

  EN ROUTE FOR THE MINES.

  At last the day--or rather night--arrived, when the gates of the Citadelopened, allowing myself with thirty other prisoners to pass out upon thefirst stage of the weary two months' tramp to that bourne whence fewconvicts ever return.

  We were a sorry, smileless band of criminals of all classes, eachdressed alike and bearing a number, our hands fastened behind our backs,and chained together in single file.

  Slowly we passed through the great iron gates, and turning, crossed theTroitskoi Bridge, our escort of mounted Cossacks cracking their longwhips, and with lanterns tied to their lance-points examining the roadcontinually, in search of any letters which might be dropped. It was aweird, dismal procession, as we trudged on through the streets madesloppy by the melting snow, and the clanking of chains, the cracking ofwhips, the shouts of the soldiers, and the rumbling of the springlesscarts in the rear for those who might fall ill by the way, awoke theechoes of the silent thoroughfares.

  A few belated pleasure-seekers, some in fancy dress, who were evidentlyreturning from a ball, stopped to watch us pass, but no one was allowedto come near us, for the Cossacks warned them off.

  In this way we passed across the slumbering city and out upon the broad,bleak highway on our journey eastward to the Ourals. It commenced torain in torrents, and soon all of us were wet and uncomfortable, butthrough the long night we marched onward in dogged silence.Conversation was forbidden, and those who had spoken had felt the thongof the escort's whip about his shoulders.

  The convict to whom I was chained I recognised as the guide who hadconducted me over the Winter Palace. What was his crime I knew not, buthe plodded on, with a settled look of terror on his face, and the sighsthat frequently escaped him plainly showed what were his feelings atbeing exiled from his native land.

  His was not the face of a criminal, but rather that of one who had beenunjustly condemned, as I had been.

  Our wet clothes clung to us as we walked, our feet splashed throughgreat pools at every step, and the icy wind that blew across the widelevel highway chilled our very bones, greatly adding to our discomfort.

  We must have walked six hours, for as the day dawned, cloudy and grey,we saw in the distance the wooden houses of Jjora, and half an hourlater were drawn up in a line in
the open space before the littlechurch.

  Here our fetters were removed; but in the meantime the news had spreadthrough the village that a convict convoy was on the march, and theinhabitants, taking compassion upon us, crowded round with steamingtureens of _tschi_, piles of new bread, and jugs of _vodki_. They werenot allowed to approach us, however, and were compelled to set theirofferings at the roadside and retire.

  The pity felt for Siberian exiles is universal, and even the Cossacksseemed to have some sympathy for us poor wretches, as they allowed us topartake freely of what the kind-hearted peasants offered.

  I was almost exhausted by the long tramp, and ate ravenously. As soonas we had appeased our hunger, we were marched inside the church toattend a parting mass and hear a brief sermon.

  As we knelt, the priest went through the ritual, afterwards giving us anaddress, urging submission and penitence, as well as extolling theCzar's clemency most likely; but as I was unable to understand a word, Iwas spared this canting hypocrisy, and was glad when the grim farce wasover