But the laughter had already died away. He was overdoing it, very much overdoing it. The people were getting tired of him. Someone, here and there, still shrieked hysterically; a few continued to laugh, but already there were pauses. At last there were moments when the silence was general, save for the singing, dancing Zazubrina, and the kitten which mewed softly and piteously as it lay on the grass. It was scarcely distinguishable from the grass in colour, and, no doubt, because the paint had blinded it and hampered its movements, the poor slippery, big-headed creature senselessly tottered on his trembling paws, standing still as if glued to the grass, and all the while it kept on mewing, Zazubrina commented on the movements of the kitten as follows: "Look ye, Christian people, look, The green cat seeks a private nook, The wholesome ginger-coloured puss To find a place in vain makes fuss." "Very clever, no doubt, you hound," said a red-haired lad. The public regarded its artist with satiated eyes. "How it mews!" observed the hobbledehoy prisoner, twisting his head in the direction of the kitten, and he looked at his comrades. They regarded the kitten in silence. "Do you think he'll be green all his life long?" asked the lad. "All his life long, indeed!--how long do you think he will live, then?" began a tall, grey-bearded prisoner, squatting down beside poor puss; "don't you see he's dying in the sun, his fur is all sticking to him like glue; he'll turn up his toes soon...." The kitten mewed spasmodically, producing a reaction in the sentiments of the prisoners. "Turn up his toes, eh?" said the hobbledehoy, "suppose we try to wash it off him?" Nobody answered him The little green lump writhed at the feet of the rough fellows, a pitiable object of utter helplessness. "Pooh! I'm all of a muck sweat!" screamed Zazubrina, flinging himself on the ground. Nobody took the slightest notice of him. The hobbledehoy bent over the kitten and took it up in his arms, but immediately put it on the ground again. "It's all burning hot," he explained. Then he regarded his comrades, and sorrowfully said: "Poor puss, look at him! We shall not have our puss much longer. What was the use of killing the poor beast, eh?" "Wait! I think it's picking up a bit," said the red-haired man. The shapeless green creature was still writhing on the grass; twenty pairs of eyes were following its movements, and there was not the shadow of a smile in any of them. All were serious, all were silent, all of them were as miserable to look upon as that kitten, just as if it had communicated its suffering to them and they were feeling its pangs. "Pick up a bit, indeed!" laughed the hobbledehoy sardonically, raising his voice, "very much so! Poor puss has had his day. We all loved him. Why did we torture him so? Let someone put him out of his misery."