On the fortress where the condemned terrorists were imprisoned there was a steeple with an old-fashioned clock upon it.

At every hour, at every half-hour, and at every quarter-hour the clock rang out in long-drawn, mournful chimes, slowly melting high in the air, like the distant and plaintive call of migrating birds.

In the daytime, this strange and sad music was lost in the noise of the city, of the wide and crowded street which passed near the fortress.

The cars buzzed along, the hoofs of the horses beat upon the pavements, the rocking automobiles honked in the distance, peasant izvozchiks had come especially from the outskirts of the city for the Shrovetide season and the tinkling of the bells upon the necks of their little horses filled the air.

The prattle of voices--an intoxicated, merry Shrovetide prattle of voices arose everywhere.