His eyes were red with anger and with vodka; his voice was unsteady. His outstretched hand shook.
“It is the Moscow doctor,” said a man beside him—“the Moscow doctor.”
“Then I say he is no doctor!” shouted the orator. “He is a spy—a Government spy, a tchinovnik! He has heard all we have said. He has seen you all. Brothers, that man must not leave this room alive. If he does, you are lost men!”
Some few of the more violent spirits rose and pressed tumultuously toward the door. The agitator shouted and screamed, urging them on, taking good care to remain in the safe background himself. Every man in the room rose to his feet. They were full of vodka and fury and ignorance. Spirit and tall talk, taken on an empty stomach, are dangerous stimulants.
Paul stood with his back to the door and never moved.
“Sit down, fools!” he cried. “Sit down! Listen to me. You dare not touch me; you know that.”
It seemed that he was right, for they stopped with staring, stupid eyes and idle hands.
“Will you listen to me, whom you have known for years, or to this talker from the town? Choose now. I am tired of you. I have been patient with you for years. You are sheep; are you fools also, to be dazzled by the words of an idle talker who promises all and gives nothing?”
There was a sullen silence. Paul had lost his power over them, and he knew it. He was quite cool and watchful. He knew that he was in danger. These men were wild and ignorant. They were mad with drink and the brave words of the agitator.
“Choose now!” he shouted, feeling for the handle of the door behind his back.