sky's soft voice, imagined his gait, and it seemed
to him that someone was walking beside him now with a step like
Lesnitsky's.

All at once he felt frightened, his head turned cold.

"Who's there?" he asked in alarm.

"The conshtable!"

"What do you want here?"

"I have come to ask, your honor--you said this evening that you did not
want the elder, but I am afraid he may be angry. He told me to go to
him. Shouldn't I go?"

"That's enough, you bother me," said Lyzhin with vexation, and he
covered himself up again.

"He may be angry.... I'll go, your honor. I hope you will be
comfortable," and Loshadin went out.

In the passage there was coughing and subdued voices. The witnesses must
have returned.

"We'll let those poor beggars get away early to-morrow,..." thought
the examining magistrate; "we'll begin the inquest as soon as it is
daylight."

He began sinking into forgetfulness when suddenly there were steps
again, not timid this time but rapid and noisy. There was the slam of a
door, voices, the scratching of a match....

"Are you asleep? Are you asleep?" Dr. Startchenko was asking him
hurriedly and angrily as he struck one match after another; he was
covered with snow, and brought a chill air in with him. "Are you asleep?
Get up! Let us go to Von Taunitz's. He has sent his own horses for you.
Come along. There, at any rate, you will have supper, and sleep like
a human being. You see I have come for you myself. The horses are
splendid, we shall get there in twenty minutes."

"And what time is it now?"

"A quarter past ten."

Lyzhin, sleepy and discontented, put on his felt overboots, his furlined
coat, his cap and hood, and went out with the doctor. There was not
a very sharp frost, but a violent and piercing wind was blowing and
driving along the street the clouds of snow which seemed to be racing
away in terror: high drifts were heaped up already under the fences and
at the doorways. The doctor and the examining magistrate got into the
sledge, and the white coachman bent over them to button up the cover.
They were both hot.

"Ready!"

They drove through the village. "Cutting a feathery furrow," thought
the examining magistrate, listlessly watching the action of the trace
horse's legs. There were lights in all the huts, as though it were the
eve of a great holiday: the peasants had not gone to bed because they
were afraid of the dead body. The coachman preserved a sullen silence,
probably he