A squeaky, insolent declaration was heard from that group.

“I know this ridiculously conceited individual.”

“What individual?” asked Razumov, raising his bowed head, and searching with his eyes all the eyes fixed upon him.  An intense surprised silence lasted for a time.  “If it’s me....”

He stopped, thinking over the form of his confession, and found it suddenly, unavoidably suggested by the fateful evening of his life.

“I am come here,” he began, in a clear voice, “to talk of an individual called Ziemianitch.  Sophia Antonovna has informed me that she would make public a certain letter from St. Petersburg....”

“Sophia Antonovna has left us early in the evening,” said Laspara.  “It’s quite correct.  Everybody here has heard....”

“Very well,” Razumov interrupted, with a shade of impatience, for his heart was beating strongly.  Then, mastering his voice so far that there was even a touch of irony in his clear, forcible enunciation—­

“In justice to that individual, the much ill-used peasant, Ziemianitch, I now declare solemnly that the conclusions of that letter calumniate a man of the people—­a bright Russian soul.  Ziemianitch had nothing to do with the actual arrest of Victor Haldin.”

Razumov dwelt on the name heavily, and then waited till the faint, mournful murmur which greeted it had died out.

“Victor Victorovitch Haldin,” he began again, “acting with, no doubt, noble-minded imprudence, took refuge with a certain student of whose opinions he knew nothing but what his own illusions suggested to his generous heart.  It was an unwise display of confidence.  But I am not here to appreciate the actions of Victor Haldin.  Am I to tell you of the feelings of that student, sought out in his obscure solitude, and menaced by the complicity forced upon him?  Am I to tell you what he did?  It’s a rather complicated story.  In the end the student went to General T—–­ himself, and said, ’I have the man who killed de P—–­ locked up in my room, Victor Haldin—­a student like myself.’”

A great buzz arose, in which Razumov raised his voice.

“Observe—­that man had certain honest ideals in view.  But I didn’t come here to explain him.”

“No.  But you must explain how you know all this,” came in grave tones from somebody.

“A vile coward!” This simple cry vibrated with indignation.  “Name him!” shouted other voices.

“What are you clamouring for?” said Razumov disdainfully, in the profound silence which fell on the raising of his hand.  “Haven’t you all understood that I am that man?”

Laspara went away brusquely from his side and climbed upon his stool.  In the first forward surge of people towards him, Razumov expected to be torn to pieces, but they fell back without touching him, and nothing came of it but noise.  It was bewildering.  His head ached terribly.  In the confused uproar he made out several times the name of Peter Ivanovitch, the word “judgement,” and the phrase, “But this is a confession,” uttered by somebody in a desperate shriek.  In the midst of the tumult, a young man, younger than himself, approached him with blazing eyes.