Then came more students, working men, young women, schoolboys, military men, officials, and clerks; each, placing a packet of books on the table, whispered: “Hide them.” Each one slipped away. And Elisaveta went to work to hide the books. She put them in the table drawer, in the cupboard, under the sofas, behind the doors, and in the fireplace. But the pile of books on the table grew and grew; more and more persistent became the whisper: “Hide them.” There was no hiding-place left, and yet the books were still being brought in--there was no end to them. Everywhere books--they were pressing on her breast.... Elisaveta awakened. Some one’s face was bending over her. The bedcover slipped from her handsome body. Elena was whispering something. Elisaveta asked her in a drowsy voice: “Did I wake you?” “You cried out so,” said Elena. “I’ve had such a stupid dream,” whispered Elisaveta. She went to sleep again, and again the same hoard of books. There were so many books that even the window-sills were piled up with them, and a dim and dusty gleam of light barely penetrated. An ominous silence tormented her. Behind the counter at her side stood a student and two boys, strangely erect; they were pale, and seemed to wait for something. All at once the door opened noiselessly. Many men entered, making a loud noise with their boots--first a police official, then another, then a detective in gold-rimmed spectacles, a house-porter, another house-porter, a muzhik, a policeman, another muzhik, another house-porter. More and more came; they filled the room, and still they came--huge, moody, silent fellows. Elisaveta felt it stifling; she awoke. Again she dropped into sleep, again she was tormented by horrible visions oppressing the breast. She dreamt that the house was being searched. “An illegal book!” exclaimed a detective, looking ominously at her as he put a book on the table. The pile of the illegal books on the table began to grow. They were examined and shaken. A police official sat down to make out a list. The pen ran on, but there was not enough paper. “More paper!” cried the official. Page was filled after page. The official mocked at her, threatened her with a revolver. Once more she awoke, once more she fell asleep. And still another dream. A small, frail schoolmaster with a squeaky voice came. Then another, a third, and still others--an endless flock of peaceful men with wails of revolt. And yet another dream. The city square was bathed in the bright sunlight. A muzhik appeared and shouted at the top of his voice: “Hey there! Stand up for your gov’r-ment, and for holy Russia!” Another muzhik came in answer to his shout, then a third and a fourth. Slowly and steadily the crowd grew, the turmoil increased. A muzhik in a white apron wearing a conspicuous emblem[7] made his way through the crowd and, screwing up his mouth, cried like a madman: “For Rush-ya, I say, fel-lows, kill ‘em!”