“I am lost, I know it! Only not because of your power, but rather because of my weakness. Yes! You, too, are only worms in the eyes of God. And, wait! You shall choke. I am lost through blindness. I saw much and I became blind, like an owl. As a boy, I remember, I chased an owl in a ravine; it flew about and struck against something. The sun blinded it. It was all bruised and it disappeared, and my father said to me then: ‘It is the same with man; some man bustles about to and fro, bruises himself, exhausts himself, and then throws himself anywhere, just to rest.’ Hey I unbind my hands.” His face turned pale, his eyes closed, his shoulders quivered. Tattered and crumpled he rocked about in the chair, striking his chest against the edge of the table, and began to whisper something. The merchants exchanged significant glances. Some, nudging one another in the sides, shook their heads at Foma in silence. Yakov Mayakin’s face was dark and immobile as though hewn out of stone. “Shall we perhaps unbind him?” whispered Bobrov. “When we get a little nearer.” “No, it’s not necessary,” said Mayakin in an undertone-“We’ll leave him here. Let someone send for a carriage. We’ll take him straight to the asylum.” “And where am I to rest?” Foma muttered again. “Whither shall I fling myself?” And he remained as though petrified in a broken, uncomfortable attitude, all distorted, with an expression of pain on his face. Mayakin rose from his seat and went to the cabin, saying softly: “Keep an eye on him, he might fling himself overboard.” “I am sorry for the fellow,” said Bobrov, looking at Yakov Tarasovich as he departed. “No one is to blame for his madness,” replied Reznikov, morosely. “And Yakov,” whispered Zubov, nodding his head in the direction of Mayakin. “What about Yakov? He loses nothing through it.” “Yes, now he’ll, ha, ha!” “He’ll be his guardian, ha, ha, ha!” Their quiet laughter and whisper mingled with the groaning of the engine did not seem to reach Foma’s ear. Motionlessly he stared into the distance before him with a dim look, and only his lips were slightly quivering. “His son has returned,” whispered Bobrov. “I know his son,” said Yashchurov. “I met him in Perm.” “What sort of a man is he?” “A business-like, clever fellow.” “Is that so?” “He manages a big business in Oosolye.” “Consequently Yakov does not need this one. Yes. So that’s it.” “Look, he’s weeping!” “Oh?”