When they were gone, Aksionov recalled what had been said, and when he remembered that his wife also had suspected him, he said to himself, “It seems that only God can know the truth; it is to Him alone we must appeal, and from Him alone expect mercy.”

And Aksionov wrote no more petitions; gave up all hope, and only prayed to God.

Aksionov was condemned to be flogged and sent to the mines.  So he was flogged with a knot, and when the wounds made by the knot were healed, he was driven to Siberia with other convicts.

For twenty-six years Aksionov lived as a convict in Siberia.  His hair turned white as snow, and his beard grew long, thin, and grey.  All his mirth went; he stooped; he walked slowly, spoke little, and never laughed, but he often prayed.

In prison Aksionov learnt to make boots, and earned a little money, with which he bought The Lives of the Saints.  He read this book when there was light enough in the prison; and on Sundays in the prison-church he read the lessons and sang in the choir; for his voice was still good.

The prison authorities liked Aksionov for his meekness, and his fellow-prisoners respected him:  they called him “Grandfather,” and “The Saint.”  When they wanted to petition the prison authorities about anything, they always made Aksionov their spokesman, and when there were quarrels among the prisoners they came to him to put things right, and to judge the matter.

No news reached Aksionov from his home, and he did not even know if his wife and children were still alive.

One day a fresh gang of convicts came to the prison.  In the evening the old prisoners collected round the new ones and asked them what towns or villages they came from, and what they were sentenced for.  Among the rest Aksionov sat down near the newcomers, and listened with downcast air to what was said.

One of the new convicts, a tall, strong man of sixty, with a closely-cropped grey beard, was telling the others what be had been arrested for.

“Well, friends,” he said, “I only took a horse that was tied to a sledge, and I was arrested and accused of stealing.  I said I had only taken it to get home quicker, and had then let it go; besides, the driver was a personal friend of mine.  So I said, ‘It’s all right.’  ‘No,’ said they, ‘you stole it.’  But how or where I stole it they could not say.  I once really did something wrong, and ought by rights to have come here long ago, but that time I was not found out.  Now I have been sent here for nothing at all...  Eh, but it’s lies I’m telling you; I’ve been to Siberia before, but I did not stay long.”

“Where are you from?” asked some one.

“From Vladimir.  My family are of that town.  My name is Makar, and they also call me Semyonich.”

Aksionov raised his head and said:  “Tell me, Semyonich, do you know anything of the merchants Aksionov of Vladimir?  Are they still alive?”