“It’s all right, your honour; I’ll manage him like this,” said the policeman, sitting down by the dying man, and clasping his strong, right arm round the body under the arms.  The convoy soldier lifted the stockingless feet, in prison shoes, and put them into the trap.

The police officer looked around, and noticing the pancake-shaped hat of the convict lifted it up and put it on the wet, drooping head.

“Go on,” he ordered.

The isvostchik looked angrily round, shook his head, and, accompanied by the convoy soldier, drove back to the police station.  The policeman, sitting beside the convict, kept dragging up the body that was continually sliding down from the seat, while the head swung from side to side.

The convoy soldier, who was walking by the side of the trap, kept putting the legs in their place.  Nekhludoff followed the trap.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

SPILLED LIKE WATER ON THE GROUND.

The trap passed the fireman who stood sentinel at the entrance, [the headquarters of the fire brigade and the police stations are generally together in Moscow] drove into the yard of the police station, and stopped at one of the doors.  In the yard several firemen with their sleeves tucked up were washing some kind of cart and talking loudly.  When the trap stopped, several policemen surrounded it, and taking the lifeless body of the convict under the arms, took him out of the trap, which creaked under him.  The policeman who had brought the body got down, shook his numbed arm, took off his cap, and crossed himself.  The body was carried through the door and up the stairs.  Nekhludoff followed.  In the small, dirty room where the body was taken there stood four beds.  On two of them sat a couple of sick men in dressing-gowns, one with a crooked mouth, whose neck was bandaged, the other one in consumption.  Two of the beds were empty; the convict was laid on one of them.  A little man, wish glistening eyes and continually moving brows, with only his underclothes and stockings on, came up with quick, soft steps, looked at the convict and then at Nekhludoff, and burst into loud laughter.  This was a madman who was being kept in the police hospital.

“They wish to frighten me, but no, they won’t succeed,” he said.

The policemen who carried the corpse were followed by a police officer and a medical assistant.  The medical assistant came up to the body and touched the freckled hand, already growing cold, which, though still soft, was deadly pale.  He held it for a moment, and then let it go.  It fell lifelessly on the stomach of the dead man.

“He’s ready,” said the medical assistant, but, evidently to be quite in order, he undid the wet, brown shirt, and tossing back the curls from his ear, put it to the yellowish, broad, immovable chest of the convict.  All were silent.  The medical assistant raised himself again, shook his head, and touched with his fingers first one and then the other lid over the open, fixed blue eyes.