The face of the prosecuting
attorney was also worn, bored, and unexpectant. Behind the judge
sat the mayor of the city, a portly man, who meditatively stroked
his cheek; the marshal of the nobility, a gray-haired, large-bearded,
ruddy-faced man, with large, kind eyes; and the district elder,
who wore a sleeveless peasant overcoat, and possessed a huge belly
which apparently embarrassed him; he endeavored to cover it with
the folds of his overcoat, but it always slid down and showed again.
"There are no criminals here and no judges," Pavel's vigorous voice
was heard. "There are only captives here, and conquerors!"
Silence fell. For a few seconds the mother's ears heard only the thin,
hasty scratch of the pen on the paper and the beating of her own heart.
The oldest judge also seemed to be listening to something from afar.
His associates stirred. Then he said:
"Hm! yes--Andrey Nakhodka, do you admit----"
Somebody whispered, "Rise!"
Andrey slowly rose, straightened himself, and pulling his mustache
looked at the old man from the corners of his eyes.
"Yes! To what can I confess myself guilty?" said the Little Russian
in his slow, surging voice, shrugging his shoulders.
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