ed in
the little house of the suburb, and not in the presence of the court.
Fedya's hot, youthful sally amused her; something bold and fresh grew
up in the hall, and she guessed from the movement of the people back of
her that she was not the only one who felt this.

"Your opinion," said the old judge.

The bald-headed prosecuting attorney arose, and, steadying himself on
the desk with one hand, began to speak rapidly, quoting figures. In his
voice nothing terrible was heard.

At the same time, however, a sudden dry, shooting attack disturbed the
heart of the mother. It was an uneasy suspicion of something hostile
to her, which did not threaten, did not shout, but unfolded itself
unseen, soundless, intangible. It swung lazily and dully about the
judges, as if enveloping them with an impervious cloud, through which
nothing from the outside could reach them. She looked at them. They
were incomprehensible to her. They were not angry at Pavel or at
Fedya; they did not shout at the young men, as she had expected; they
did not abuse them in words, but put all their questions reluctantly,
with the air of "What's the use?". It cost them an effort to hear the
answers to the end. Apparently they lacked interest because they knew
everything beforehand.

There before her stood the gendarme, and spoke in a bass voice:

"Pavel Vlasov was named as the ringleader."

"And Nakhodka?" asked the fat judge in his lazy undertone.

"He, too."

"May I----"

The old judge asked a question of somebody:

"You have nothing?"

All the judges seemed to the mother to be worn out and ill. A sickened
weariness marked their poses and voices, a sickened weariness and a
bored, gray ennui. It was an evident nuisance to them, all this--the
uniforms, the hall, the gendarmes, the lawyers, the obligation to sit
in armchairs, and to put questions concerning things perforce already
known to them. The mother in general was but little acquainted with
the masters; she had scarcely ever seen them; and now she regarded the
faces of the judges as something altogether new and incomprehensible,
deserving pity, however, rather than inspiring horror.

The familiar, yellow-faced officer stood before them, and told about
Pavel and Andrey, stretching the words with an air of importance. The
mother involuntarily laughed, and thought: "You don't know much, my
little father."

And now, as she looked at the people behind the grill, she ceased to
feel