ably," Markelov repeated savagely. "We know those words.
They are always flung at a man when he's wanted to do something mean!
That is what these fine phrases are for!"

"We sympathise with you," Sipiagin continued reproachfully, "and you
hate us."

"Fine sympathy! To Siberia and hard labour with us; that is your
sympathy. Oh, let me alone! let me alone! for Heaven's sake!"

Markelov lowered his head.

He was agitated at heart, though externally calm. He was most of all
tortured by the fact that he had been betrayed--and by whom? By Eremy of
Goloplok! That same Eremy whom he had trusted so much! That Mendely the
sulky had not followed him, had really not surprised him. Mendely was
drunk and was consequently afraid. But Eremy! For Markelov, Eremy stood
in some way as the personification of the whole Russian people, and
Eremy had deceived him! Had he been mistaken about the thing he was
striving for? Was Kisliakov a liar? And were Vassily Nikolaevitch's
orders all stupid? And all the articles, books, works of socialists and
thinkers, every letter of which had seemed to him invincible truth, were
they all nonsense too? Was it really so? And the beautiful simile of
the abscess awaiting the prick of the lancet--was that, too, nothing more
than a phrase? "No! no!" he whispered to himself, and the colour spread
faintly over his bronze-coloured face; "no! All these things are true,
true... only I am to blame. I did not know how to do things, did not
put things in the right way! I ought simply to have given orders, and
if anyone had tried to hinder, or object--put a bullet through his head!
there is nothing else to be done! He who is against us has no right to
live. Don't they kill spies like dogs, worse than dogs?"

All the details of his capture rose up in Markelov's mind. First the
silence, the leers, then the shrieks from the back of the crowd...
someone coming up sideways as if bowing to him, then that sudden rush,
when he was knocked down. His own cries of "What are you doing, my
boys?" and their shouts, "A belt! A belt! tie him up!" Then the rattling
of his bones... unspeakable rage... filth in his mouth, his nostrils...
"Shove him in the cart! shove him in the cart!" someone roared with
laughter..

"I didn't go about it in the right way..." That was the thing that
most tormented him. That he had fallen under the wheel was his personal
misfortune and had nothing to do with the cause--it was possible to bear
that...