“Question repeated.  Prisoner preserves the same stubborn silence.

“The venerable Chaplain of the Fortress being then admitted and exhorting the prisoner to repentance, entreating him also to atone for his crime by an unreserved and full confession which should help to liberate from the sin of rebellion against the Divine laws and the sacred Majesty of the Ruler, our Christ-loving land—­the prisoner opens his lips for the first time during this morning’s audience and in a loud, clear voice rejects the venerable Chaplain’s ministrations.

“At eleven o’clock the Court pronounces in summary form the death sentence.

“The execution is fixed for four o’clock in the afternoon, subject to further instructions from superior authorities.”

Councillor Mikulin dropped the page of foolscap, glanced down his beard, and turning to Razumov, added in an easy, explanatory tone—­

“We saw no object in delaying the execution.  The order to carry out the sentence was sent by telegraph at noon.  I wrote out the telegram myself.  He was hanged at four o’clock this afternoon.”

The definite information of Haldin’s death gave Razumov the feeling of general lassitude which follows a great exertion or a great excitement.  He kept very still on the sofa, but a murmur escaped him—­

“He had a belief in a future existence.”

Councillor Mikulin shrugged his shoulders slightly, and Razumov got up with an effort.  There was nothing now to stay for in that room.  Haldin had been hanged at four o’clock.  There could be no doubt of that.  He had, it seemed, entered upon his future existence, long boots, Astrakhan fur cap and all, down to the very leather strap round his waist.  A flickering, vanishing sort of existence.  It was not his soul, it was his mere phantom he had left behind on this earth—­thought Razumov, smiling caustically to himself while he crossed the room, utterly forgetful of where he was and of Councillor Mikulin’s existence.  The official could have set a lot of bells ringing all over the building without leaving his chair.  He let Razumov go quite up to the door before he spoke.

“Come, Kirylo Sidorovitch—­what are you doing?”

Razumov turned his head and looked at him in silence.  He was not in the least disconcerted.  Councillor Mikulin’s arms were stretched out on the table before him and his body leaned forward a little with an effort of his dim gaze.

“Was I actually going to clear out like this?” Razumov wondered at himself with an impassive countenance.  And he was aware of this impassiveness concealing a lucid astonishment.

“Evidently I was going out if he had not spoken,” he thought.  “What would he have done then?  I must end this affair one way or another.  I must make him show his hand.”

For a moment longer he reflected behind the mask as it were, then let go the door-handle and came back to the middle of the room.