"You must understand at last," he went on, "you must understand that in pronouncing his name I am betraying him to you--I am betraying him, am I not? I am, am I not?" "But how am I to guess if you don't make up your mind to speak out?" "That's just it; you always cut the ground from under one's feet with your logic, damn it.... Well, here goes... this 'noble personality,' this 'student'... is Shatov... that's all." "Shatov? How do you mean it's Shatov?" "Shatov is the 'student' who is mentioned in this. He lives here, he was once a serf, the man who gave that slap...." "I know, I know." Lembke screwed up his eyes. "But excuse me, what is he accused of? Precisely and, above all, what is your petition?" "I beg you to save him, do you understand? I used to know him eight years ago, I might almost say I was his friend," cried Pyotr Stepanovitch, completely carried away. "But I am not bound to give you an account of my past life," he added, with a gesture of dismissal. "All this is of no consequence; it's the case of three men and a half, and with those that are abroad you can't make up a dozen. But what I am building upon is your humanity and your intelligence. You will understand and you will put the matter in its true light, as the foolish dream of a man driven crazy... by misfortunes, by continued misfortunes, and not as some impossible political plot or God knows what!" He was almost gasping for breath. "H'm. I see that he is responsible for the manifestoes with the axe," Lembke concluded almost majestically. "Excuse me, though, if he were the only person concerned, how could he have distributed it both here and in other districts and in the X province... and, above all, where did he get them?" "But I tell you that at the utmost there are not more than five people in it--a dozen perhaps. How can I tell?" "You don't know?" "How should I know?--damn it all." "Why, you knew that Shatov was one of the conspirators." "Ech!" Pyotr Stepanovitch waved his hand as though to keep off the overwhelming penetration of the inquirer. "Well, listen. I'll tell you the whole truth: of the manifestoes I know nothing--that is, absolutely nothing. Damn it all, don't you know what nothing means?... That sub-lieutenant, to be sure, and somebody else and someone else here... and Shatov perhaps and someone else too--well, that's the lot of them... a wretched lot.... But I've come to intercede for Shatov. He must be saved, for this poem is his, his own composition, and it was through him it was published abroad; that I know for a fact, but of the manifestoes I really know nothing." "If the poem is his work, no doubt the manifestoes are too. But what data have you for suspecting Mr. Shatov?" Pyotr Stepanovitch, with the air of a man driven out of all patience, pulled a pocket-book out of his pocket and took a note out of it. "Here are the facts," he cried, flinging it on the table.