d
dryly in reply.

"Well, upon my word, gentlemen! Yes, I took the pestle.... What does one
pick things up for at such moments? I don't know what for. I snatched it
up and ran--that's all. For to me, gentlemen, _passons_, or I declare I
won't tell you any more."

He sat with his elbows on the table and his head in his hand. He sat
sideways to them and gazed at the wall, struggling against a feeling of
nausea. He had, in fact, an awful inclination to get up and declare that
he wouldn't say another word, "not if you hang me for it."

"You see, gentlemen," he said at last, with difficulty controlling
himself, "you see. I listen to you and am haunted by a dream.... It's a
dream I have sometimes, you know.... I often dream it--it's always the same
... that some one is hunting me, some one I'm awfully afraid of ... that
he's hunting me in the dark, in the night ... tracking me, and I hide
somewhere from him, behind a door or cupboard, hide in a degrading way,
and the worst of it is, he always knows where I am, but he pretends not to
know where I am on purpose, to prolong my agony, to enjoy my terror....
That's just what you're doing now. It's just like that!"

"Is that the sort of thing you dream about?" inquired the prosecutor.

"Yes, it is. Don't you want to write it down?" said Mitya, with a
distorted smile.

"No; no need to write it down. But still you do have curious dreams."

"It's not a question of dreams now, gentlemen--this is realism, this is
real life! I'm a wolf and you're the hunters. Well, hunt him down!"

"You are wrong to make such comparisons ..." began Nikolay Parfenovitch,
with extraordinary softness.

"No, I'm not wrong, not at all!" Mitya flared up again, though his
outburst of wrath had obviously relieved his heart. He grew more
good-humored at every word. "You may not trust a criminal or a man on
trial tortured by your questions, but an honorable man, the honorable
impulses of the heart (I say that boldly!)--no! That you must believe you
have no right indeed ... but--

Be silent, heart,
Be patient, humble, hold thy peace.

Well, shall I go on?" he broke off gloomily.

"If you'll be so kind," answered Nikolay Parfenovitch.

Chapter V. The Third Ordeal

Though Mitya spoke sullenly, it was evident that he was trying more than
ever not to forget or miss a single detail of his story. He told them how
he had leapt over the fence into his father's garden; how he had gone up