It happened in Russia in the ’seventies, when the struggle between the Revolutionists and the Government was at its height.
The General-Governor of a district in South Russia, a healthy-looking German with drooping moustaches and a cold look on his expressionless face, dressed in a military uniform, with a white cross at his neck, sat one evening in his cabinet, at a table on which were placed four candles with green shades, looking through and signing papers left for him by his secretary.
Among those papers was the death-warrant of Anatole Svetlogoúb, a graduate of the Novorossíysk University, sentenced for taking part in a conspiracy to overthrow the then existing Government. The General, frowning deeply, signed that paper, too. With his white, well-kept fingers, wrinkled by old age and the use of much soap, he carefully adjusted the edges of the sheets and laid them aside. The next paper dealt with the sums assigned for the carriage of provender. He read this attentively, considering whether the amounts were correctly or wrongly calculated, when suddenly he remembered a talk he had had with his assistant about Svetlogoúb’s case. The General thought that the dynamite found in Svetlogoúb’s possession was not sufficient proof of criminal intentions; while the assistant insisted that besides the dynamite there was sufficient evidence to prove that Svetlogoúb was the leader of the gang. And, remembering this, the General became thoughtful; and his heart, under the padded coat with facings as stiff as cardboard, began to beat nervously; and he breathed so hard that the large white cross—the object of his joy and pride—visibly rose and sank on his breast. The secretary might still be called back, and the sentence might at least be delayed, if not remitted.