“You wanted to help him?”
“Help!... Yes, perhaps I did want to help him.... I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember? Then you didn’t quite know what you were doing?”
“Not at all. I remember everything—every detail. I jumped down to look at him, and wiped his face with my handkerchief.”
“We have seen your handkerchief. Did you hope to restore him to consciousness?”
“I don’t know whether I hoped it. I simply wanted to make sure whether he was alive or not.”
“Ah! You wanted to be sure? Well, what then?”
“I’m not a doctor. I couldn’t decide. I ran away thinking I’d killed him. And now he’s recovered.”
“Excellent,” commented the prosecutor. “Thank you. That’s all I wanted. Kindly proceed.”
Alas! it never entered Mitya’s head to tell them, though he remembered it, that he had jumped back from pity, and standing over the prostrate figure had even uttered some words of regret: “You’ve come to grief, old man—there’s no help for it. Well, there you must lie.”