one mass of bruises. He showed them to the people in
the house."

"But you, Sophia Antonovna, you don't believe in the actual devil?"

"Do you?" retorted the woman curtly. "Not but that there are plenty of
men worse than devils to make a hell of this earth," she muttered to
herself.

Razumov watched her, vigorous and white-haired, with the deep fold
between her thin eyebrows, and her black glance turned idly away. It was
obvious that she did not make much of the story--unless, indeed, this
was the perfection of duplicity. "A dark young man," she explained
further. "Never seen there before, never seen afterwards. Why are you
smiling, Razumov?"

"At the devil being still young after all these ages," he answered
composedly. "But who was able to describe him, since the victim, you
say, was dead-drunk at the time?"

"Oh! The eating-house keeper has described him. An overbearing,
swarthy young man in a student's cloak, who came rushing in, demanded
Ziemianitch, beat him furiously, and rushed away without a word, leaving
the eating-house keeper paralysed with astonishment."

"Does he, too, believe it was the devil?"

"That I can't say. I am told he's very reserved on the matter. Those
sellers of spirits are great scoundrels generally. I should think he
knows more of it than anybody."

"Well, and you, Sophia Antonovna, what's your theory?" asked Razumov
in a tone of great interest. "Yours and your informant's, who is on the
spot."

"I agree with him. Some police-hound in disguise. Who else could beat a
helpless man so unmercifully? As for the rest, if they were out that day
on every trail, old and new, it is probable enough that they might
have thought it just as well to have Ziemianitch at hand for more
information, or for identification, or what not. Some scoundrelly
detective was sent to fetch him along, and being vexed at finding him
so drunk broke a stable fork over his ribs. Later on, after they had the
big game safe in the net, they troubled their heads no more about that
peasant."

Such were the last words of the woman revolutionist in this
conversation, keeping so close to the truth, departing from it so far in
the verisimilitude of thoughts and conclusions as to give one the notion
of the invincible nature of human error, a glimpse into the utmost
depths of self-deception. Razumov, after shaking hands with Sophia
Antonovna, left the grounds, crossed the road, and walking out on the
little steamboat pier