The Sokolniki field was deserted. Only at the end of it, in front ofthe almshouse and the lunatic asylum, could be seen some people inwhite and others like them walking singly across the field shoutingand gesticulating.

　　One of these was running to cross the path of Count Rostopchin'scarriage, and the count himself, his coachman, and his dragoons lookedwith vague horror and curiosity at these released lunatics andespecially at the one running toward them.

　　Swaying from side to side on his long, thin legs in his flutteringdressing gown, this lunatic was running impetuously, his gaze fixed onRostopchin, shouting something in a hoarse voice and making signs tohim to stop. The lunatic's solemn, gloomy face was thin and yellow,with its beard growing in uneven tufts. His black, agate pupils withsaffron-yellow whites moved restlessly near the lower eyelids.

　　"Stop! Pull up, I tell you!" he cried in a piercing voice, and againshouted something breathlessly with emphatic intonations and gestures.

　　Coming abreast of the caleche he ran beside it.

　　"Thrice have they slain me, thrice have I risen from the dead.They stoned me, crucified me... I shall rise... shall rise... shallrise. They have torn my body. The kingdom of God will be overthrown...Thrice will I overthrow it and thrice re-establish it!" he cried,raising his voice higher and higher.

　　Count Rostopchin suddenly grew pale as he had done when the crowdclosed in on Vereshchagin. He turned away. "Go fas... faster!" hecried in a trembling voice to his coachman. The caleche flew overthe ground as fast as the horses could draw it, but for a long timeCount Rostopchin still heard the insane despairing screams growingfainter in the distance, while his eyes saw nothing but theastonished, frightened, bloodstained face of "the traitor" in thefur-lined coat.

　　Recent as that mental picture was, Rostopchin already felt that ithad cut deep into his heart and drawn blood. Even now he feltclearly that the gory trace of that recollection would not pass withtime, but that the terrible memory would, on the contrary, dwell inhis heart ever more cruelly and painfully to the end of his life. Heseemed still to hear the sound of his own words: "Cut him down! Icommand it...."