Once or twice in the course of the night, the Count changed his position, got up, stretched himself and paced the length of the room.

Dumnoff lay like a log upon his pallet, his head thrown back, his mouth open, snoring with the strong bass vibration of a thirty-two-foot organ pipe.

The Count looked at him occasionally, but did not envy him his power of sleep.

His own reflections were in a measure more agreeable than any dream could have been, certainly more so in his judgment than the visions of unlimited cabbage soup, vodka, and fighting which were doubtless delighting Dumnoff's slumbering soul.
As the church clocks struck one hour after another, his spirits rose.

He had, indeed, never had the least apprehension concerning his own liberty, since he knew himself to be perfectly innocent.