Yanson pointed at the presiding judge with his finger, and, looking at him furtively, answered angrily:
"You!"
"Well?"
Again Yanson turned his eyes toward one of the judges, in whom he divined a friend, and repeated:
"She has said that I must be hanged. I must not be hanged."
"Take away the accused."
But Yanson still had time to repeat, in a grave tone of conviction:
"I must not be hanged."
And with his outstretched finger and irritated face, to which he tried in vain to give an air of gravity, he seemed so stupid that the guard, in violation of orders, said to him in an undertone as he led him away:
"Well, you are a famous imbecile, you are!"
"I must not be hanged!" repeated Yanson, obstinately.
They shut him up again in the cell in which he had passed a month, and to which he had become accustomed, as he had become accustomed to everything: to blows, to brandy, to the desolate and snow-covered country sown with rounded hillocks resembling tombs. It even gave him pleasure to see his bed again, and his grated window, and to eat what they gave him; he had taken nothing since morning. The disagreeable thing was what had happened in court, about which he knew not what to think. He had no idea at all of what death by hanging was like.
The guard said to him, in a tone of remonstrance:
