"But I say that you poisoned her!" declared Abyedok, decisively. It often happened, that having said something absolutely impossible and without proof, he kept on repeating it, beginning in a childish, capricious tone, and gradually raising his voice to a mad shriek. The Deacon stood up for his friend. "No; he did not poison her. He had no reason to do so." "But I say that he poisoned her!" swore Abyedok. "Silence!" shouted the Captain, threateningly, becoming still angrier. He looked at his friends with his blinking eyes, and not discovering anything to further provoke his rage in their half-tipsy faces, he lowered his head, sat still for a little while, and then turned over on his back on the ground. Meteor was biting cucumbers. He took a cucumber in his hand without looking at it, put nearly half of it into his mouth, and bit it with his yellow teeth, so that the juice spurted out in all directions and ran over his cheeks. He did not seem to want to eat, but this process pleased him. Martyanoff sat motionless on the ground, like a statue, and looked in a dull manner at the half-vedro bottle, already getting empty. Abyedok lay on his belly and coughed, shaking all over his small body. The rest of the dark, silent figures sat and lay around in all sorts of positions, and their tatters made them look like untidy animals, created by some strange, uncouth deity to make a mockery of man. "There once lived a lady in Suzdale, A strange lady, She fell into hysterics, Most unpleasantly!" sang the Deacon in low tones embracing Aleksei Maksimovitch, who was smiling kindly into his face. Paltara Taras giggled voluptuously. The night was approaching. High up in the sky the stars were shining ... and on the mountain and in the town the lights of the lamps were appearing. The whistles of the steamers were heard all over the river, and the doors of Vaviloff's eating-house opened noisily. Two dark figures entered the courtyard, and one of them asked in a hoarse voice: "Are you drinking?" And the other said in a jealous aside: "Just see what devils they are!" Then a hand stretched over the Deacon's head and took away the bottle, and the characteristic sound of vodki being poured into a glass was heard. Then they all protested loudly. "Oh this is sad!" shouted the Deacon. "Krivoi, let us remember the ancients! Let us sing 'On the Banks of the Babylonian Rivers.'" "But can he?" asked Simtsoff. "He? He was a chorister in the Bishop's choir. Now then, Krivoi! ... "On the r-i-v-e-r-s--" The Deacon's voice was loud and hoarse and cracked, but his friend sang in a shrill falsetto.