“If!—— Ifs fetch a hundred roubles a piece on the Moscow market.”
“Well, Luka, what did you get for sticking him?” asked Kobylin.
“It brought me five hundred strokes, my friend. It did indeed. They did all but kill me,” said Luka, once more addressing the assembly and without heeding his neighbour Kobylin. “When they gave me those five hundred strokes, I was treated with great ceremony. I had never before been flogged. What a mass of people came to see me! The whole town had assembled to see the brigand, the murderer, receive his punishment. How stupid the populace is!—I cannot tell you to what extent. Timoshka the executioner undressed me and laid me down and cried out, ‘Look out, I am going to grill you!’ I waited for the first stroke. I wanted to cry out, but could not. It was no use opening my mouth, my voice had gone. When he gave me the second stroke—you need not believe me unless you please—I did not hear when they counted two. I returned to myself and heard them count seventeen. Four times they took me down from the board to let me breathe for half-an-hour, and to souse me with cold water. I stared at them with my eyes starting from my head, and said to myself, ‘I shall die here.’”
“But you did not die,” remarked Kobylin innocently.
Luka looked at him with disdain, and every one burst out laughing.
“What an idiot! Is he wrong in the upper storey?” said Luka, as if he regretted that he had condescended to speak to such an idiot.
“He is a little mad,” said Vassili on his side.
Although Luka had killed six persons, no one was ever afraid of him in the prison. He wished, however, to be looked upon as a terrible person.