For several seconds； while the young man was taking up his position on the step； there was complete silence。 Only at the back of the mass of people； all pressing in one direction； could be heard sighs and groans and sounds of pushing and the shuffling of feet。
Rastoptchin； waiting for him to be on the spot he had directed； scowled； and passed his hand over his face。
“Lads！” he said； with a metallic ring in his voice； “this man； Vereshtchagin； is the wretch by whose doing Moscow is lost。”
The young man in the fox…lined coat stood in a resigned pose； clasping his hands together in front of his body； and bending a little forward。 His wasted young face； with its look of hopelessness and the hideous disfigurement of the half…shaven head； was turned downwards。 At the count’s first words he slowly lifted his head and looked up from below at the count； as though he wanted to say something to him； or at least to catch his eye。 But Rastoptchin did not look at him。 The blue vein behind the young man’s ear stood out like a cord on his long； thin neck； and all at once his face flushed crimson。
All eyes were fixed upon him。 He gazed at the crowd； and； as though made hopeful by the expression he read on the faces there； he smiled a timid； mournful smile； and dropping his head again； shifted his feet on the step。
“He is a traitor to his Tsar and his country； he deserted to Bonaparte； he alone of all the Russians has disgraced the name of Russia； and through him Moscow is lost；” said Rastoptchin in a harsh； monotonous voice； but all at once he glanced down rapidly at Vereshtchagin； who still stood in the same submissive attitude。 As though that glance had driven him to frenzy； flinging up his arms； he almost yelled to the crowd：
“You shall deal with him as you think fit！ I hand him over to you！”
The people were silent； and only pressed closer and closer on one another。 To bear each other’s weight； to breathe in that tainted foulness； to be unable to stir； and to be expecting something vague； uncomprehended and awful； was becoming unbearable。 The men in the front of the crowd； who saw and heard all that was passing before them； all stood with wide…open； horror…struck eyes and gaping mouths； straining all their strength to support the pressure from behind on their backs。
“Beat him！ … Let the traitor perish and not shame the name of Russia！” screamed Rastoptchin。 “Cut him down！ I give the command！” Hearing not the words； but only the wrathful tones of Rastoptchin’s voice； the mob moaned and heaved forward； but stopped again。
“Count！” … the timid and yet theatrical voice of Vereshtchagin broke in upon the momentary stillness that followed。 “Count； one God is above us …” said Vereshtchagin； lifting his head； and again the thick vein swelled on his thin neck and the colour swiftly came and faded again from his face。 He did not finish what he was trying to say。
“Cut him down！ I command it！ …” cried Rastoptchin； suddenly turning as white as Vereshtchagin himself。
“Draw sabres！” shouted the officer to the dragoons； himself drawing his sabre。
Another still more violent wave passed over the crowd； and reaching the front rows； pushed them forward； and threw them staggering right up to the steps。 The tall young man； with a stony expression of face and his lifted arm rigid in the air； stood close beside Vereshtchagin。 “Strike at him！” the officer said almost in a whisper to the dragoons； and one of the soldiers； his face suddenly convulsed by fury； struck Vereshtchagin on the head with the flat of his sword。
Vereshtchagin uttered a brief “Ah！” of surprise； looking about him in alarm； as though he did not know what this was done to him for。 A similar moan of surprise and horror ran through the crowd。
“O Lord！” some one was heard to utter mournfully。 After the exclamation of surprise that broke from Vereshtchagin he uttered a piteous cry of pain； and that cry was his undoing。 The barrier of human feeling that still held the mob back was strained to the utmost limit； and it snapped instantaneously。 The crime had been begun； its completion was inevitable。 The piteous moan of reproach was drowned in the angry and menacing roar of the mob。 Like the great seventh wave that shatters a ship； that last； irresistible wave surged up at the back of the crowd； passed on to the foremost ranks； carried them off their feet and engulfed all together。 The dragoon who had struck the victim would have repeated his blow。 Vereshtchagin； with a scream of terror； putting his hands up before him； dashed into the crowd。 The tall young man； against whom he stumbled； gripped Vereshtchagin’s slender neck in his hands； and with a savage shriek fell with him under the feet of the trampling； roaring mob。 Some beat and tore at Vereshtchagin； others at the tall young man。 And the screams of persons crushed in the crowd and of those who tried to rescue the tall young man only increased the frenzy of the mob。 For a long while the dragoons were unable to get the bleeding； half…murdered factory workman away。 And in spite of all the feverish haste with which the mob strove to make an end of what had once been begun； the men who beat and strangled Vereshtchagin and tore him to pieces could not kill him。 The crowd pressed on them on all sides； heaved from side to side like one man with them in the middle； and would not let them kill him outright or let him go。
“Hit him with an axe； eh？ … they have crushed him … Traitor； he sold Christ！ … living … alive … serve the thief right。 With a bar！ … Is he alive？ …”
Only when the victim ceased to struggle； and his shrieks had passed into a long…drawn； rhythmic death…rattle； the mob began hurriedly to change places about the bleeding corpse on the ground。 Every one went up to it； gazed at what had been done； and pressed back horror…stricken； surprised； and reproachful。
“O Lord； the people’s like a wild beast； how could he be alive！” was heard in the crowd。 “And a young fellow too … must have been a merchant’s son； to be sure； the people … they do say it’s not the right man … not the right man！ … O Lord！ … They have nearly murdered another man； they say he’s almost dead … Ah； the people … who wouldn’t be afraid of sin …” were saying now the same people； looking with rueful pity at the dead body； with the blue face fouled with dust and blood； and the long； slender； broken neck。
A punctilious police official； feeling the presence of the body unseemly in the courtyard of his excellency； bade the dragoons drag the body away into the street。 Two dragoons took hold of the mutilated legs； and drew the body away。 The dead； shaven head； stained with blood and grimed with dust； was trailed along the ground； rolling from side to side on the long neck。 The crowd shrank away from the corpse。
When Vereshtchagin fell； and the crowd with a savage yell closed in and heaved about him； Rastoptchin suddenly turned white； and instead of going to the back entrance； where horses were in waiting for him； he strode rapidly along the corridor leading to the rooms of the lower story； looking on the floor and not knowing where or why he was going。 The count’s face was white； and he could not check the feverish twitching of his lower jaw。
“Your excellency； this way … where are you going？ … this way；” said a trembling； frightened voice behind him。 Count Rastoptchin was incapable of making any reply。 Obediently turning； he went in the direction indicated。 At the back entrance stood a carriage。 The distant roar of the howling mob could be heard even there。 Count Rastoptchin hurriedly got into the carriage； and bade them drive him to his house at Sokolniky beyond the town。 As he drove out into Myasnitsky Street and lost the sound of the shouts of the mob； the count began to repent。 He thought with dissatisfaction now of the excitement and terror he had betrayed before his subordinates。 “The populace is terrible； it is hideous。 They are like wolves that can only be appeased with flesh；” he thought。 “Count！ there is one God over us！” Vereshtchagin’s words suddenly recurred to him； and a disagreeable chill ran down his back。 But that feeling was momentary； and Count Rastoptchin smiled contemptuously at himself。 “I had other duties。 The people had to be appeased。 Many other victims have perished and are perishing for the public good；” he thought； and he began to reflect on the social duties he had towards his family and towards the city intrusted to his care； and on himself—not as Fyodor Vassilyevitch Rastoptchin （he assumed that Fyodor Vassilyevitch Rastoptchin was sacrificing himself for le bien publique）—but as governor of Moscow； as the representative of authority intrusted with full powers by the Tsar。 “If I had been simply Fyodor Vassilyevitch； my course of action might have been quite different； but I was bound to preserve both the life and the dignity of the governor。”
Lightly swayed on the soft springs of the carriage； and hearing no more of the fearful sounds of the mob； Rastoptchin was physically soothed； and as is always the case simultaneously with physical relief； his intellect supplied him with grounds for moral comfort。 The thought that reassured Rastoptchin was not a new one。 Ever since the worl