“It is easy for you to talk,” said Aksyónof, “but I have suffered for you these twenty-six years. Where could I go to now?⁠ ⁠… My wife is dead, and my children have forgotten me. I have nowhere to go.⁠ ⁠…”

Makár Semyónitch did not rise, but beat his head on the floor. “Iván Dmítritch, forgive me!” he cried. “When they flogged me with the knout it was not so hard to bear as it is to see you now⁠ ⁠… yet you had pity on me, and did not tell. For Christ’s sake forgive me, wretch that I am!” And he began to sob.

When Aksyónof heard him sobbing he, too, began to weep.

“God will forgive you!” said he. “Maybe I am a hundred times worse than you.” And at these words his heart grew light, and the longing for home left him. He no longer had any desire to leave the prison, but only hoped for his last hour to come.

In spite of what Aksyónof had said, Makár Semyónitch confessed his guilt. But when the order for his release came, Aksyónof was already dead.