Razumov did not struggle.  The three men held him pinned against the wall, while Nikita, taking up a position a little on one side, deliberately swung off his enormous arm.  Razumov, looking for a knife in his hand, saw it come at him open, unarmed, and received a tremendous blow on the side of his head over his ear.  At the same time he heard a faint, dull detonating sound, as if some one had fired a pistol on the other side of the wall.  A raging fury awoke in him at this outrage.  The people in Laspara’s rooms, holding their breath, listened to the desperate scuffling of four men all over the landing; thuds against the walls, a terrible crash against the very door, then all of them went down together with a violence which seemed to shake the whole house.  Razumov, overpowered, breathless, crushed under the weight of his assailants, saw the monstrous Nikita squatting on his heels near his head, while the others held him down, kneeling on his chest, gripping his throat, lying across his legs.

“Turn his face the other way,” the paunchy terrorist directed, in an excited, gleeful squeak.

Razumov could struggle no longer.  He was exhausted; he had to watch passively the heavy open hand of the brute descend again in a degrading blow over his other ear.  It seemed to split his head in two, and all at once the men holding him became perfectly silent—­soundless as shadows.  In silence they pulled him brutally to his feet, rushed with him noiselessly down the staircase, and, opening the door, flung him out into the street.

He fell forward, and at once rolled over and over helplessly, going down the short slope together with the rush of running rain water.  He came to rest in the roadway of the street at the bottom, lying on his back, with a great flash of lightning over his face—­a vivid, silent flash of lightning which blinded him utterly.  He picked himself up, and put his arm over his eyes to recover his sight.  Not a sound reached him from anywhere, and he began to walk, staggering, down a long, empty street.  The lightning waved and darted round him its silent flames, the water of the deluge fell, ran, leaped, drove—­noiseless like the drift of mist.  In this unearthly stillness his footsteps fell silent on the pavement, while a dumb wind drove him on and on, like a lost mortal in a phantom world ravaged by a soundless thunderstorm.  God only knows where his noiseless feet took him to that night, here and there, and back again without pause or rest.  Of one place, at least, where they did lead him, we heard afterwards; and, in the morning, the driver of the first south-shore tramcar, clanging his bell desperately, saw a bedraggled, soaked man without a hat, and walking in the roadway unsteadily with his head down, step right in front of his car, and go under.