His head sunk
in the collar of his uniform, standing motionless, he began to read
a paper in a droning voice.
"He's reading the sentence," said Sizov, listening.
It became quiet again, and everybody looked at the old man, small,
dry, straight, resembling the stick held in his unseen hand. The
other judges also stood up. The district elder inclined his head
on one shoulder, and looked up to the ceiling; the mayor of the
city crossed his hands over his chest; the marshal of the nobility
stroked his beard. The judge with the sickly face, his puffy
neighbor, and the prosecuting attorney regarded the prisoners
sidewise. And behind the judges the Czar in a red military coat,
with an indifferent white face looked down from his portrait over
their heads. On his face some insect was creeping, or a cobweb was
trembling.
"Exile!" Sizov said with a sigh of relief, dropping back on the
bench. "Well, of course! Thank God! I heard that they were going
to get hard labor. Never mind, mother, that's nothing."
Fatigued by her thoughts and her immobility, she understood the
joy of the old man, which boldly raised the soul dragged down by
hopelessness. But it didn't enliven her much.
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