“But I’m only going out for a minute to walk about the yard,” said Andrey Yefimitch.
“You can’t, you can’t; it’s forbidden. You know that yourself.”
“But what difference will it make to anyone if I do go out?” asked Andrey Yefimitch, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t understand. Nikita, I must go out!” he said in a trembling voice. “I must.”
“Don’t be disorderly, it’s not right,” Nikita said peremptorily.
“This is beyond everything,” Ivan Dmitritch cried suddenly, and he jumped up. “What right has he not to let you out? How dare they keep us here? I believe it is clearly laid down in the law that no one can be deprived of freedom without trial! It’s an outrage! It’s tyranny!”
“Of course it’s tyranny,” said Andrey Yefimitch, encouraged by Ivan Dmitritch’s outburst. “I must go out, I want to. He has no right! Open, I tell you.”
“Do you hear, you dull-witted brute?” cried Ivan Dmitritch, and he banged on the door with his fist. “Open the door, or I will break it open! Torturer!”
“Open the door,” cried Andrey Yefimitch, trembling all over; “I insist!”
“Talk away!” Nikita answered through the door, “talk away. . . .”
“Anyhow, go and call Yevgeny Fyodoritch! Say that I beg him to come for a minute!”