adjusting their
costumes, and mopping their sweat-covered brows. Fatigued by the
struggle, and exhausted by the disgrace of his defeat, Foma lay there in
silence, tattered, soiled with something, firmly bound, hand and foot,
with napkins and towels. With round, blood-shot eyes he gazed at the
sky; they were dull and lustreless, as those of an idiot, and his chest
heaved unevenly and with difficulty.

Now came their turn to mock him. Zubov began. He walked up to him,
kicked him in the side and asked in a soft voice, all trembling with the
pleasure of revenge:

"Well, thunder-like prophet, how is it? Now you can taste the sweetness
of Babylonian captivity, he, he, he!"

"Wait," said Foma, hoarsely, without looking at him. "Wait until I'm
rested. You have not tied up my tongue."

But saying this, Foma understood that he could no longer do anything,
nor say anything. And that not because they had bound him, but because
something had burned out within him, and his soul had become dark and
empty.

Zubov was soon joined by Reznikov. Then one after another the others
began to draw near. Bobrov, Kononov and several others preceded by Yakov
Mayakin went to the cabin, anxiously discussing something in low tones.

The steamer was sailing toward the town at full speed. The bottles on
the tables trembled and rattled from the vibration of the steamer, and
Foma heard this jarring, plaintive sound above everything else. Near him
stood a throng of people, saying malicious, offensive things.

But Foma saw them as though through a fog, and their words did not touch
him to the quick. A vast, bitter feeling was now springing up within
him, from the depth of his soul; he followed its growth and though he
did not yet understand it, he already experienced something melancholy
and degrading.

"Just think, you charlatan! What have you done to yourself?" said
Reznikov. "What sort of a life is now possible to you? Do you know that
now no one of us would care even as much as to spit on you?"

"What have I done?" Foma tried to understand. The merchants stood around
him in a dense, dark mass.

"Well," said Yashchurov, "now, Fomka, your work is done."

"Wait, we'll see," bellowed Zubov in a low voice.

"Let me free!" said Foma.

"Well, no! we thank you humbly!"

"Untie me."

"It's all right! You can lie that way as well."

"Call up my godfather."

But Yakov Tarasovich came up at this moment. He came up, stopped near
Foma, sternly