"What do you want? Off with you--all!" His cry fell on the crowd like a whip stroke. They recoiled from him with a dull murmur. The smith rose up and made a stride towards his dead wife, but turned at once and made for the smithy, drawn straight up to his full height. All could see how, there in his workshop, he sat down on the anvil, caught his head in his hands as though he suddenly felt an unbearable pain, and slowly rocked his body to and fro. Ilya was filled with compassion for the smith; he walked away as if in a dream, and wandered round the court, from one group to another, without comprehending a word of what was said near him. A great red stain swam before his eyes, and his heart was oppressed within him. The police appeared on the scene and dispersed the crowd. Then they arrested the smith and led him away. "Good-bye--good-bye, grandfather," cried Savel as he strode out of the gate. "Good-bye, Savel Ivanitsch, good-bye, my friend," called out old Jeremy in his thin voice, hastily, as though he would hurry after him. No one except the old man bade farewell to the smith. The people stood about the yard in little groups, speaking of the event, and looking furtively at the place where the body of the murdered woman lay under a coarse mat. In the door of the smithy, where Savel had crouched, a policeman now settled himself, pipe in mouth. He smoked, spitting to one side, and listened to old Jeremy and looked at him with dull eyes. "Was it he, then, who committed murder?" said the old man, slowly and mysteriously. "The power of darkness has done it, and that alone. Man cannot murder man--man in himself is good, and God is in his heart. It is not he who murders--do not believe it!" Jeremy laid his hands on his breast, as though to ward off something from himself, and went on to make clear to the bystanders the significance of what had happened. "Long ago the Dark One whispered in his heart, 'Kill her!'" he said, turning to the watchman. "Ah! Long ago, you say?" said the other importantly. "Long--long ago! 'She belongs to you,' he said, and that is not true; a horse, that may belong to me, a dog may be mine, but a woman belongs to God. She is one of the children of men. She has received from God in Heaven all her troubles and burdens, and bears them even as we. But the Dark One never ceases to whisper, 'Kill her, she is yours.' He longs that men should strive against God. He himself struggles against God, and he seeks for companions among men." "But it wasn't the Devil who used the tongs, but the smith," said the policeman, and spat on the ground. "But who put it into his mind?" cried the old man. "Remember that! who put the thought in his mind?" "Look here," said the policeman, "what have you to do with the smith? Is he your son?" "No, No! Indeed." "But you're related to him, eh?" "No. I have no relations." "Well then, what are you so excited about?" "I--Ah God----!"