Viekov tossed himself about the room, knocking against the table and the chairs, mumbling and swelling his rosy cheeks. His little face was puffed like a bladder. His insignificant eyes disappeared, and the little red nose hid itself between his cheeks. His sorrowful voice, his dejected figure, his hopeless words annoyed Klimkov, who said unamiably: "Soon everything will be arranged differently. So there's no use complaining now." "But in our place they don't _want_ a different arrangement," exclaimed Viekov, gesticulating, and stopping in front of Yevsey. "You understand?" Yevsey disturbed turned on the chair, desiring to express a thought in his mind, but he was unable to find words, and began to lace his shoes sniffling. "Sasha shouts, 'Beat them. Show them what liberty is. So that they may,' he says, 'get afraid of it.' Viakhirev displays revolvers. 'I'll shoot,' he says, 'straight into the eyes.' Krasavin is gathering a gang of some sort of people, and also speaks about knives, and hacking people down, and all such things. Chasin is preparing to kill a certain student, because he took his mistress from him. Some other new fellow has come. He's one-eyed, and smiles all over, and his teeth are knocked out in front. A very terrible face. Sheer savagery, all this." Viekov lowered his voice to a whisper, and said mysteriously, "Everyone ought to protect his means of a livelihood. That's understood--but preferably without murder. Because if we start to kill, then we in turn will be killed, too." Viekov shuddered. He turned his head toward the window, and listened to something. Then he raised his hand, and his face turned pale. "What's the matter?" asked Yevsey. A resonant noise hit against the windows in soft uneven blows, as if to open them cautiously and pour itself into the room. Yevsey rose to his feet with a look of inquiry and alarm at Viekov; while Viekov standing at some distance from the window stretched his hand out in order to open it, apparently taking care not to be seen from the street. At the same moment a broad stream of sounds broke in, surrounded the spies, pushed against the door, opened it, and floated into the corridor, powerful, exulting, sturdy. "They are rejoicing," said Viekov quietly, starting. "Look out and see what it is," said Yevsey, hurriedly throwing an overcoat on. But Viekov was already looking out, and he began to report what he saw, every minute quickly turning his head from the window to Yevsey. He spoke rapidly and brokenly. "The people are marching--red flags--a great many people--countless--of various stations--all mixed up in one crowd--an officer even--and Father Uspensky--without hats--Melnikov with a flag--our Melnikov--look!"