know myself, I shall rebel! My heart is heavy, gentlemen
... spare me!"

He almost fell back in his place: his voice broke: he could hardly
articulate the last phrase. Then the judges proceeded to put the questions
and began to ask both sides to formulate their conclusions.

But I will not describe the details. At last the jury rose to retire for
consultation. The President was very tired, and so his last charge to the
jury was rather feeble. "Be impartial, don't be influenced by the
eloquence of the defense, but yet weigh the arguments. Remember that there
is a great responsibility laid upon you," and so on and so on.

The jury withdrew and the court adjourned. People could get up, move
about, exchange their accumulated impressions, refresh themselves at the
buffet. It was very late, almost one o'clock in the night, but nobody went
away: the strain was so great that no one could think of repose. All
waited with sinking hearts; though that is, perhaps, too much to say, for
the ladies were only in a state of hysterical impatience and their hearts
were untroubled. An acquittal, they thought, was inevitable. They all
prepared themselves for a dramatic moment of general enthusiasm. I must
own there were many among the men, too, who were convinced that an
acquittal was inevitable. Some were pleased, others frowned, while some
were simply dejected, not wanting him to be acquitted. Fetyukovitch
himself was confident of his success. He was surrounded by people
congratulating him and fawning upon him.

"There are," he said to one group, as I was told afterwards, "there are
invisible threads binding the counsel for the defense with the jury. One
feels during one's speech if they are being formed. I was aware of them.
They exist. Our cause is won. Set your mind at rest."

"What will our peasants say now?" said one stout, cross-looking,
pock-marked gentleman, a landowner of the neighborhood, approaching a
group of gentlemen engaged in conversation.

"But they are not all peasants. There are four government clerks among
them."

"Yes, there are clerks," said a member of the district council, joining
the group.

"And do you know that Nazaryev, the merchant with the medal, a juryman?"

"What of him?"

"He is a man with brains."

"But he never speaks."

"He is no great talker, but so much the better. There's no need for the
Petersburg man to teach him: he could teach all Petersburg himself. He's
the father of twelve child