This is one of the mildest punishments for that offence. They
seized every pretext for speaking to him, to ask what was going on in
Poland, and whether there were any hopes for her. Overcome by fatigue
and misery, he sat down upon a bench, where he remained sunk in the
gloomiest thoughts until accosted by a man of repulsive aspect,
branded on the face--the Russian practice with criminals of the worst
sort--who said abruptly, "Get up and go to work." It was the overseer,
himself a former convict. "O my God!" exclaims Piotrowski, "Thou alone
didst hear the bitter cry of my soul when this outcast first spoke to
me as my master."
[Illustration: CHARITY TO THE EXILE.]
Before going to work his irons were struck off, thanks to the instant
entreaties of his compatriots: he was then given a broom and shovel
and set to clear rubbish and filth off the roof of a large unfinished
building. On one side was a convict of the lowest order, with whom he
worked--on the other, the soldier who mounted guard over them. To
avoid the indignity of chastisement or reproof--indeed, to escape
notice altogether--he bent his whole force to his task, without
raising his head, or even his eyes, but the iron entered into his soul
and he wept.
The order of his days knew no variation. Rising at sunrise, the
convicts worked until eight o'clock, when they breakfasted, then until
their dinner at noon, and again from one o'clock until dark.
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