The madman, quickly moving his brows all the time, began relating how they tormented him by thought suggestion.
“Why, they are all against me, and torment and torture me through their mediums.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Nekhludoff, and without listening any further he left the room and went out into the yard, wishing to know where the body would be put.
The policemen with their burden had already crossed the yard, and were coming to the door of a cellar. Nekhludoff wished to go up to them, but the police officer stopped him.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Then go away.”
Nekhludoff obeyed, and went back to his isvostchik, who was dozing. He awoke him, and they drove back towards the railway station.
They had not made a hundred steps when they met a cart accompanied by a convoy soldier with a gun. On the cart lay another convict, who was already dead. The convict lay on his back in the cart, his shaved head, from which the pancake-shaped cap had slid over the black-bearded face down to the nose, shaking and thumping at every jolt. The driver, in his heavy boots, walked by the side of the cart, holding the reins; a policeman followed on foot. Nekhludoff touched his isvostchik’s shoulder.
“Just look what they are doing,” said the isvostchik, stopping his horse.