"What happened?" Yevsey asked. Viekov looked around warily, took Klimkov by the hand, and whispered: "This morning the people in St. Petersburg with a priest and sacred banners marched to the Czar Emperor. You understand? But they were not admitted. The soldiers were stationed about, and blood was spilled." A handsome staid gentleman, Leontyev, ran past them, glanced back at Viekov through his pince nez, and asked: "Where is Filip Filippovich?" But he disappeared without waiting for the information he wanted, and Viekov ran after him. Yevsey closed his eyes for a minute, in order to try in the darkness to get at the meaning of what had been told him. He could easily represent to himself a mass of people walking through the streets in a sacred procession, but since he could not understand why the soldiers had shot at them, he was skeptical about the affair. However, the general agitation seized him, too, and he felt disturbed and ill at ease. He wanted to bustle about with the spies, but unable to make up his mind to approach those he knew, he merely retreated still farther into his corner. Many persons passed by him, all of whom, he fancied, were quickly searching for a little cosy corner where they might stand to collect their thoughts. Maklakov appeared. He remained near the door with his hands thrust into his pockets, and looked sidewise at everybody. Melnikov approached him. "Did they do it on account of the war?" "I don't know." "For what else? If it was the people. But maybe it was simply some mistake. Eh? What did they ask for, do you know?" "A constitution," replied Maklakov. The sullen spy shook his head. "I don't believe it." "As you please." Then Melnikov turned heavily, like a bear, and walked away grumbling: "No one understands anything. They stir about, make a big noise--" Yevsey went up to Maklakov, who was looking at him. "What is it?" "I have a report." Maklakov waved him aside. "Who wants to bother about reports to-day." Yevsey drew still nearer, and asked: "Timofey Vasilyevich, what does 'constitution' mean?" "A different order of life," answered the spy in a low voice. Solovyov, perspiring and red, came running up. "Have you heard whether they are going to send us to St. Petersburg?" "No, I haven't." "I think they probably will. Such an event! Why, it's a revolt, a real revolt." "To-morrow we will know." "How much blood has been shed! What is it?" Maklakov's eye ran about uneasily. To-day his shoulders seemed more stooping than ever, and the ends of his mustache dropped downward. Something seemed to be revolting in Yevsey's brain, and Maklakov's grim words kept repeating themselves. "A different order of life--different." They gripped at his heart, arousing a sharp desire to extract their meaning. But everything around him turned and darted hither and thither. Melnikov's angry, resonant voice sounded sickeningly: