Those in the room cried, “They're bringing it! they're bringing it!”
Every eye flashed as it turned and glared at Velchaninoff; every hand threatened him and then pointed to the stairs.
Undoubtedly it was reality, not delirium. Velchaninoff thought that he stood up and raised himself on tip-toes, in order to see over the heads of the crowd. He wanted to know what was being carried in.
His heart beat wildly, wildly, wildly; and suddenly, as in his former dream, there came one—two—three loud rings at the bell.
And again, the sound of the bell was so distinct and clear that he felt it could not be a dream. He gave a cry, and awoke; but he did not rush to the door as on the former occasion.
What sudden idea was it that guided his movements? Had he any idea at all, or was it impulse that prompted him what to do? He sprang up in bed, with arms outstretched, as though to ward off an attack, straight towards the divan where Pavel Pavlovitch was sleeping.
His hands encountered other hands outstretched in his direction; consequently some one must have been standing over him.
The curtains were drawn, but it was not absolutely dark, because a faint light came from the next room, which had no curtains.
Suddenly something cut the palm of his left hand, some of his fingers causing him sharp pain. He instantly realized that he had seized a knife or a razor, and he closed his hand upon it with the rapidity of thought.
At that moment something fell to the ground with a hard metallic sound.