“I’m not frightened, I’m not frightened.”  The madman kept repeating these words, and spitting in the direction of the medical assistant.

“Well?” asked the police officer.

“Well!  He must be put into the mortuary.”

“Are you sure?  Mind,” said the police officer.

“It’s time I should know,” said the medical assistant, drawing the shirt over the body’s chest.  “However, I will send for Mathew Ivanovitch.  Let him have a look.  Petrov, call him,” and the medical assistant stepped away from the body.

“Take him to the mortuary,” said the police officer.  “And then you must come into the office and sign,” he added to the convoy soldier, who had not left the convict for a moment.

“Yes, sir,” said the soldier.

The policemen lifted the body and carried it down again.  Nekhludoff wished to follow, but the madman kept him back.

“You are not in the plot!  Well, then, give me a cigarette,” he said.  Nekhludoff got out his cigarette case and gave him one.

The madman, quickly moving his brows all the time, began relating how they tormented him by thought suggestion.

“Why, they are all against me, and torment and torture me through their mediums.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Nekhludoff, and without listening any further he left the room and went out into the yard, wishing to know where the body would be put.

The policemen with their burden had already crossed the yard, and were coming to the door of a cellar.  Nekhludoff wished to go up to them, but the police officer stopped him.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?  Then go away.”

Nekhludoff obeyed, and went back to his isvostchik, who was dozing.  He awoke him, and they drove back towards the railway station.

They had not made a hundred steps when they met a cart accompanied by a convoy soldier with a gun.  On the cart lay another convict, who was already dead.  The convict lay on his back in the cart, his shaved head, from which the pancake-shaped cap had slid over the black-bearded face down to the nose, shaking and thumping at every jolt.  The driver, in his heavy boots, walked by the side of the cart, holding the reins; a policeman followed on foot.  Nekhludoff touched his isvostchik’s shoulder.

“Just look what they are doing,” said the isvostchik, stopping his horse.

Nekhludoff got down and, following the cart, again passed the sentinel and entered the gate of the police station.  By this time the firemen had finished washing the cart, and a tall, bony man, the chief of the fire brigade, with a coloured band round his cap, stood in their place, and, with his hands in his pockets, was severely looking at a fat-necked, well-fed, bay stallion that was being led up and down before him by a fireman.  The stallion was lame on one of his fore feet, and the chief of the firemen was angrily saying something to a veterinary who stood by.