She looked, compared, and reflected. She was unable
to understand or express in words her uneasy feeling of hostility.
Sizov touched her lightly with his elbow; she turned to him, and
found a look of contentment and slight preoccupation on his face.
"Just see how they've intrenched themselves in their defiance! Fine
stuff in 'em! Eh? Barons, eh? Well, and yet they're going to
be sentenced!"
The mother listened, unconsciously repeating to herself:
"Who will pass the sentence? Whom will they sentence?"
The witnesses spoke quickly, in their colorless voices, the judges
reluctantly and listlessly. Their bloodless, worn-out faces stared
into space unconcernedly. They did not expect to see or hear
anything new. At times the fat judge yawned, covering his smile
with his puffy hand, while the red-mustached judge grew still paler,
and sometimes raised his hand to press his finger tightly on the
bone of his temple, as he looked up to the ceiling with sorrowful,
widened eyes. The prosecuting attorney infrequently scribbled on
his paper, and then resumed his soundless conversation with the
marshal of the nobility, who stroked his gray beard, rolled his
large, beautiful eyes, and smiled, nodding his head with importance.
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