This whisper gave strength to Foma, and he confidently and passionately began to hurl reproaches, jeers and abuses at those who met his eyes. He growled joyously, seeing that his words were taking effect. He was listened to silently, attentively; several men moved closer toward him. Exclamations of protest were heard, but these were brief, not loud, and each time Foma shouted some one’s name, all became silent, listening, casting furtive, malicious glances in the direction of their accused comrade. Bobrov laughed perplexedly, but his small eyes bored into Foma as gimlets. And Lup Reznikov, waving his hands, hopped about awkwardly and, short of breath, said: “Be my witnesses. What’s this! No-o! I will not forgive this! I’ll go to court. What’s that?” and suddenly he screamed in a shrill voice, out-stretching his hand toward Foma: “Bind him!” Foma was laughing. “You cannot bind the truth, you can’t do it! Even bound, truth will not grow dumb!” “Go-o-od!” drawled out Kononov in a dull, broken voice. “See here, gentlemen of the merchant class!” rang out Mayakin’s voice. “I ask! you to admire him, that’s the kind of a fellow he is!” One after another the merchants moved toward Foma, and on their faces he saw wrath, curiosity, a malicious feeling of satisfaction, fear. Some one of those modest people among whom Foma was sitting, whispered to him: “Give it to them. God bless you. Go ahead! That will be to your credit.” “Robustov!” cried Foma. “What are you laughing at? What makes you glad? You will also go to the galleys.” “Put him ashore!” suddenly roared Robustov, springing to his feet. And Kononov shouted to the captain: “Back! To the town! To the Governor.” And someone insinuatingly, in a voice trembling with feeling: “That’s a collusive agreement. That was done on purpose. He was instigated, and made drunk to give him courage.” “No, it’s a revolt!” “Bind him! Just bind him!” Foma grasped a champagne bottle and swung it in the air. “Come on now! No, it seems that you will have to listen to me.” With renewed fury, frantic with joy at seeing these people shrinking and quailing under the blows of his words, Foma again started to shout names and vulgar oaths, and the exasperated tumult was hushed once more. The men, whom Foma did not know, gazed at him with eager curiosity, with approval, while some looked at him even with joyous surprise. One of them, a gray-haired little old man with rosy cheeks and small mouse eyes, suddenly turned toward the merchants, who had been abused by Foma, and said in a sweet voice: “These are words from the conscience! That’s nothing! You must endure it. That’s a prophetic accusation. We are sinful. To tell the truth we are very--” He was hissed, and Zubov even jostled him on the shoulder. He made a low bow and disappeared in the crowd.