A new hissing whisper crawled through the room, but louder and plainer. Ilya shivered with the tension and looked at Gratschev. He expected something from him, awaited it with confidence. But Pavel, looking out from behind the shoulders of the people in front of him, sat silent and motionless. Gromov smiled and said, his words were smooth and oily; then Vyera began not loudly but quite firmly: "It's quite simple. I wanted to be rich, so I took it, that is all, there's nothing else, and I was always like that." The jury began to whisper together; their faces grew dark and displeasure appeared on the features of the judges. The room was still; from the street came the dull regular sound of footsteps on the pavement; soldiers were marching by outside. "In view of the prisoner's confession," said the Prosecutor. Ilya felt he could sit still no longer. He got up, and took a step forward. "Sh--silence!" said the usher loudly. He sat down again and hung his head like Pavel. He could not see Petrusha's red face, now puffed out importantly, and apparently annoyed at something; but for all the unaltered friendliness of Gromov's face, he saw a cold heart behind the kind demeanour of the judge, and he understood that this cheerful man was accustomed to condemn men and women as a joiner is to plane boards. And an angry, oppressive thought rose in Ilya's mind: "If I confessed, it would be the same with me. Petrusha would judge; to the prison with me, while he stays here." At this he stopped and sat there, to listen, seeing nobody. "I will not have you speak of it," came in a trembling, sorrowful cry from Vyera; she screamed, cried, caught at her breast, and tore the kerchief from her head. "I will not. I will not." A confused noise filled the room. The girl's cry set all in movement, but she threw herself down behind the railing as though burnt, and sobbed heart-brokenly. "Don't torture me, let me go, for Christ's sake!" Ilya sprang up and tried to force his way forward, but the people opposed him and before he could realize it he found himself in the corridor. "They've stripped her soul," said the voice of the black-haired man. Pavel, pale, and with dishevelled hair, stood against the wall, his jaw quivering. Ilya went up to him and scowled at him in anger; people stood or moved round them talking eagerly. There was a smell of tobacco smoke in the air. "It's imprisonment! She can scream till she's tired, it's all the same." "She confessed, little fool!" "But they found the money." "Why didn't she say he gave it to her." The words buzzed about the corridor like autumn flies, and penetrated into Ilya's ears. "What?" he asked Pavel gloomily and angrily, going quite close to him. Pavel looked at him and opened his mouth but said nothing. "You've ruined a human being," said Lunev. Pavel started as though he had been lashed with a whip; he raised his hand, laid it on Ilya's shoulder, and asked in a sorrowful voice: "Is it my fault?"