put him on the sofa; but he
was dying. Sonia with a faint cry ran up, embraced him and remained so
without moving. He died in her arms.

"He's got what he wanted," Katerina Ivanovna cried, seeing her husband's
dead body. "Well, what's to be done now? How am I to bury him! What can
I give them to-morrow to eat?"

Raskolnikov went up to Katerina Ivanovna.

"Katerina Ivanovna," he began, "last week your husband told me all his
life and circumstances.... Believe me, he spoke of you with passionate
reverence. From that evening, when I learnt how devoted he was to you
all and how he loved and respected you especially, Katerina Ivanovna,
in spite of his unfortunate weakness, from that evening we became
friends.... Allow me now... to do something... to repay my debt to my
dead friend. Here are twenty roubles, I think--and if that can be of any
assistance to you, then... I... in short, I will come again, I will
be sure to come again... I shall, perhaps, come again to-morrow....
Good-bye!"

And he went quickly out of the room, squeezing his way through the crowd
to the stairs. But in the crowd he suddenly jostled against Nikodim
Fomitch, who had heard of the accident and had come to give instructions
in person. They had not met since the scene at the police station, but
Nikodim Fomitch knew him instantly.

"Ah, is that you?" he asked him.

"He's dead," answered Raskolnikov. "The doctor and the priest have been,
all as it should have been. Don't worry the poor woman too much, she is
in consumption as it is. Try and cheer her up, if possible... you are a
kind-hearted man, I know..." he added with a smile, looking straight in
his face.

"But you are spattered with blood," observed Nikodim Fomitch, noticing
in the lamplight some fresh stains on Raskolnikov's waistcoat.

"Yes... I'm covered with blood," Raskolnikov said with a peculiar air;
then he smiled, nodded and went downstairs.

He walked down slowly and deliberately, feverish but not conscious
of it, entirely absorbed in a new overwhelming sensation of life and
strength that surged up suddenly within him. This sensation might be
compared to that of a man condemned to death who has suddenly been
pardoned. Halfway down the staircase he was overtaken by the priest on
his way home; Raskolnikov let him pass, exchanging a silent greeting
with him. He was just descending the last steps when he heard rapid
footsteps behind him. Someone overtook him; it was Polenka. She was