actions of Victor Haldin. Am I to tell you of
the feelings of that student, sought out in his obscure solitude, and
menaced by the complicity forced upon him? Am I to tell you what he did?
It's a rather complicated story. In the end the student went to General
T--- himself, and said, 'I have the man who killed de P--- locked up in
my room, Victor Haldin--a student like myself.'"

A great buzz arose, in which Razumov raised his voice.

"Observe--that man had certain honest ideals in view. But I didn't come
here to explain him."

"No. But you must explain how you know all this," came in grave tones
from somebody.

"A vile coward!" This simple cry vibrated with indignation. "Name him!"
shouted other voices.

"What are you clamouring for?" said Razumov disdainfully, in the
profound silence which fell on the raising of his hand. "Haven't you all
understood that I am that man?"

Laspara went away brusquely from his side and climbed upon his stool.
In the first forward surge of people towards him, Razumov expected to
be torn to pieces, but they fell back without touching him, and nothing
came of it but noise. It was bewildering. His head ached terribly.
In the confused uproar he made out several times the name of Peter
Ivanovitch, the word "judgement," and the phrase, "But this is a
confession," uttered by somebody in a desperate shriek. In the midst
of the tumult, a young man, younger than himself, approached him with
blazing eyes.

"I must beg you," he said, with venomous politeness, "to be good enough
not to move from this spot till you are told what you are to do."

Razumov shrugged his shoulders. "I came in voluntarily."

"Maybe. But you won't go out till you are permitted," retorted the
other.

He beckoned with his hand, calling out, "Louisa! Louisa! come here,
please"; and, presently, one of the Laspara girls (they had been staring
at Razumov from behind the samovar) came along, trailing a bedraggled
tail of dirty flounces, and dragging with her a chair, which she set
against the door, and, sitting down on it, crossed her legs. The young
man thanked her effusively, and rejoined a group carrying on an animated
discussion in low tones. Razumov lost himself for a moment.

A squeaky voice screamed, "Confession or no confession, you are a police
spy!"

The revolutionist Nikita had pushed his way in front of Razumov, and
faced him with his big, livid cheeks, his heavy paunch, bull neck, and
enormous hands. Raz