With his nostrils expanded, like those of a horse, Tsiganok smelt the air for hours long--it seemed to him that he could smell the odor of hemp, of the smoke of fire--the colorless and biting smell of burning.

Now he whirled about in the room like a top, touching the walls, tapping them nervously with his fingers from time to time, taking aim, boring the ceiling with his gaze, filing the prison bars.

By his restlessness, he had tired out the soldiers who watched him through the little window, and who, several times, in despair, had threatened to shoot.

Tsiganok would retort, coarsely and derisively, and the quarrel would end peacefully because the dispute would soon turn into boorish, unoffending abuse, after which shooting would have seemed absurd and impossible.
Tsiganok slept during the nights soundly, without stirring, in unchanging yet live motionlessness, like a wire spring in temporary inactivity.

But as soon as he arose, he immediately commenced to walk, to plan, to grope about.