"Be my witnesses. What's this! No-o! I will not forgive this! I'll go to court. What's that?" and suddenly he screamed in a shrill voice, out-stretching his hand toward Foma:

"Bind him!"

Foma was laughing.

"You cannot bind the truth, you can't do it! Even bound, truth will not grow dumb!"

"Go-o-od!" drawled out Kononov in a dull, broken voice.

"See here, gentlemen of the merchant cla.s.s!" rang out Mayakin's voice.

"I ask! you to admire him, that's the kind of a fellow he is!"

One after another the merchants moved toward Foma, and on their faces he saw wrath, curiosity, a malicious feeling of satisfaction, fear. Some one of those modest people among whom Foma was sitting, whispered to him:

"Give it to them. G.o.d bless you. Go ahead! That will be to your credit."

"Robustov!" cried Foma. "What are you laughing at? What makes you glad?

You will also go to the galleys."

"Put him ash.o.r.e!" suddenly roared Robustov, springing to his feet.

And Kononov shouted to the captain:

"Back! To the town! To the Governor."

And someone insinuatingly, in a voice trembling with feeling:

"That's a collusive agreement. That was done on purpose. He was instigated, and made drunk to give him courage."

"No, it's a revolt!"

"Bind him! Just bind him!"

Foma grasped a champagne bottle and swung it in the air.

"Come on now! No, it seems that you will have to listen to me."

With renewed fury, frantic with joy at seeing these people shrinking and quailing under the blows of his words, Foma again started to shout names and vulgar oaths, and the exasperated tumult was hushed once more. The men, whom Foma did not know, gazed at him with eager curiosity, with approval, while some looked at him even with joyous surprise. One of them, a gray-haired little old man with rosy cheeks and small mouse eyes, suddenly turned toward the merchants, who had been abused by Foma, and said in a sweet voice:

"These are words from the conscience! That's nothing! You must endure it. That's a prophetic accusation. We are sinful. To tell the truth we are very--"

He was hissed, and Zubov even jostled him on the shoulder. He made a low bow and disappeared in the crowd.

"Zubov!" cried Foma. "How many people have you fleeced and turned to beggars? Do you ever dream of Ivan Petrov Myakinnikov, who strangled himself because of you? Is it true that you steal at every ma.s.s ten roubles out of the church box?"

Zubov had not expected the attack, and he remained as petrified, with his hand uplifted. But he immediately began to scream in a shrill voice, as he jumped up quickly:

"Ah! You turn against me also? Against me, too?"

And suddenly he puffed up his cheeks and furiously began to shake his fist at Foma, as he screamed in a shrill voice:

"The fool says in his heart there is no G.o.d! I'll go to the bishop!

Infidel! You'll get the galleys!"

The tumult on the steamer grew, and at the sight of these enraged, perplexed and insulted people, Foma felt himself a fairy-tale giant, slaying monsters. They bustled about, waving their arms, talking to one another--some red with anger, others pale, yet all equally powerless to check the flow of his jeers at them.

"Send the sailors over here!" cried Reznikov, tugging Kononov by the shoulder. "What's the matter with you, Ilya? Ah? Have you invited us to be ridiculed?"

"Against one puppy," screamed Zubov.

A crowd had gathered around Yakov Tarasovitch Mayakin, and listened to his quiet speech with anger, and nodded their heads affirmatively.

"Act, Yakov!" said Robustov, loudly. "We are all witnesses. Go ahead!"

And above the general tumult of voices rang out Foma's loud, accusing voice:

"It was not life that you have built--you have made a cesspool! You have bred filth and putrefaction by your deeds! Have you a conscience? Do you remember G.o.d? Money--that's your G.o.d! And your conscience you have driven away. Whither have you driven it away? Blood-suckers! You live on the strength of others. You work with other people's hands! You shall pay for all this! When you perish, you will be called to account for everything! For everything, even to a teardrop. How many people have wept blood at those great deeds of yours? And according to your deserts, even h.e.l.l is too good a place for you, rascals. Not in fire, but in boiling mud you shall be scorched. Your sufferings shall last for centuries. The devils will hurl you into a boiler and will pour into it--ha, ha, ha! they'll pour into it--ha, ha, ha! Honourable merchant cla.s.s! Builders of Life. Oh, you devils!"

Foma burst into ringing laughter, and, holding his sides, staggered, tossing his head up high.

At that moment several men quickly exchanged glances, simultaneously rushed on Foma and downed him with their weight. A racket ensued.

"Now you're caught!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed some one in a suffocating voice.

"Ah! Is that the way you're doing it?" cried Foma, hoa.r.s.ely.

For about a half a minute a whole heap of black bodies bustled about on one spot, heavily stamping their feet, and dull exclamations were heard:

"Throw him to the ground!"

"Hold his hand, his hand! Oh!"

"By the beard?"

"Get napkins, bind him with napkins."

"You'll bite, will you?"

"So! Well, how's it? Aha!"

"Don't strike! Don't dare to strike."

"Ready!"

"How strong he is!"

"Let's carry him over there toward the side."