His eyes gleamed in wild triumph. Only one thing annoyed him; the disagreeable odour. The murdered spy stank putridly behind the wall-paper. Horror and triumph shook Peredonov--he had killed an enemy! He had hardened his heart to the very end of the deed. It was not a real murder--but for Peredonov it was quite real. A mad horror had forged in him a readiness to commit the crime--and the deep, unconscious image of future murder, dormant in the lower strata of spiritual life, the tormenting itch to murder, a condition of primitive wrath, oppressed his diseased will. The ancient Cain--overlaid by many generations--found gratification in his breaking and damaging property, in his chopping with the axe, in his cutting with the knife, in his cutting down trees in the garden to prevent the spies from looking out behind them. And the ancient demon, the spirit of prehistoric confusion, of hoary chaos, rejoiced in the destruction of things, while the wild eyes of the madman reflected horror, like the horror of the death agonies of some monster. And the same illusions tormented him again and again. Varvara, amusing herself at Peredonov's expense, sometimes hid herself behind the door of the room where he was sitting, and talked in assumed voices. He would get frightened, walk up quietly to catch the enemy--and find Varvara. "Whom were you whispering to?" he asked sadly. Varvara smiled and replied: "It only seemed to you, Ardalyon Borisitch." "Surely everything doesn't merely seem to me," muttered Peredonov sadly. "There must be also truth upon the earth." Even Peredonov, in common with all conscious life, strove towards the truth, and this striving tortured him. He was not conscious that he, like all people, was striving towards the truth, and that was why he suffered this confused restlessness. He could not find the truth he sought, and he was caught in the toils and was perishing. * * * * * His acquaintances began to taunt him with being a dupe. With the usual cruelty of our town towards the weak, they talked of this deception in his presence. Prepolovenskaya asked with a derisive smile: "How is it, Ardalyon Borisitch, that you haven't gone away to your inspector's job yet?" Varvara answered for him with suppressed anger: "We shall get the paper soon, and we shall leave at once." But these questions depressed him. "How can I live, if the place isn't given to me?" he thought.