The Salt Lake herald. [volume] (Salt Lake City [Utah]) 1870-1909, 1891-06-14

prison, who had arrived but few days
prior 10 this date with small pri son CARR
son. took particular pride in the under
ground dungeons, and was very minute in
my description of them, L well remember.
| Upon my return we all went to the COVER
nor's room 20 await the arrival of Proto-
plovski. But he did not come, and as the
winter night settled down became some
what uneasy, as well as the others, appar-
emily, for, one after another, they went TO
the only little window and looked out upon
the advancing night and down the long.
bleak, snowy road. As the gloom wrapped
the bare room in darkness they left me, one
by one, till / sat alone ana waited. An hour
after this the door opened violently and a
man came in with lantern and stood in
front of me. / heard the sound of ground
ing arms in the stone corridor outside and
the murmur of sudden voices. This one
struck me roughly On the shoulder and SAID {:
FOLLOW NE. sIBr
"Where!" asked; land by whose or
ier.n
''By order of the governor general Of the
military district of Irkutsk."
Well, sir, that was the warrant, and that
was all of il. For nine, long, interminable
years lay in one of the most inaccessible,
underground dungeons that my own ingen-
uity had planned and executed, solitary
prisoner fastened by an iron collar aud
chain TO the wall, waiting death. l never
but twice had a visitor in all that wretched
life. The first came but few days after
my confinement; the door of my cell was
opened gently and four men stood at its
en- trance. They were all dressed alike-in
the long, flowing. gray coat and round top.
heavy cap of the Russian official. One held
with one hand torch above his head and
resting the other on the shoulder of COM
panion, pointed at me in my chains.
"Yes," said this one, ''that is the man,
the Architect Simpson"
/ recognized my friend then, Major Pro-
toploski. l never saw him again.
Seven long years before anyone, other
than my iailor, pushed aside my door.
Yes, sir: that makes my blood Jingle at
the thought; years, sir, that the iron upon
my neck claSped no more closely about my
throat nor clanked the chains against the
damp walls of my cell than did the spirit of
despair in my heart. Little by little had
managed to
WRITE WITH MY BLOOD
upon piece of linen they had used to bind
up sore the manacle had made upon my
wrists, my name and birth. and begging
that the news Of my cruel Imprisonment
might be sent to my family and to the near
est American consul. This gave secretly
to my second visitor, an English clergyman
who had been permitted to see me, they
thinking that was about to die Weeks
rolled by into months and these into two
long years, and there came neither my re-
lease nor my death. One day, it was in the
early Siberian winter, there came the sound
of unusual voices outside my cell and the
shutting of strange feet. Presently flood
of light poured in upon me and strange
people stood about, while one read from a
paper he held in his hands. When that was
done they Embossed my manacles and took
me from my dungeon Through long. mar
row corridors, NY dazed memory could not
place, they pushed me till an open court
yard was reached and found myself in a
crowd of convicts seated on rough, wooden
benches and eating black soup from wooden
bowls they held between their knees. From
their greater liberty l knew them to be DO
litical prisoners. There was snow upon the
barren ground, and it was cold, and j had
nothing to cover me but the rags my long
confinement had left upon my body. A
bowl was given me. sir, and ate the soup.
That night and for three days following
ate my soup twice q day, and sleeping be-
meath one of the wooden benches,
PRAYED AGAIN FOR DEATH.
None came, but worse; they took me from
nv convict comrades and drove me from the
prison gates. Itseemed dream to me, sir;