The whole hall is turning around with Bontsie, there is a din in his ears, and through it he can distinguish more sharply and more sharply the voice of the Advocate as sweet as a violin:
"His name," he hears him saying, "has fit him like an artist-tailor's gown on a graceful body."
"What is he talking about?" Bontsie asks himself. And he hears an impatient voice interrupting him, and saying:
"Pray, without similes!"
"He has never, proceeds the Advocate, complained against any one, neither against God nor against man! There has never flamed up a spark of hatred in his eyes; he has never uplifted them with any pretensions to Heaven."
Bontsie again does not understand a word, and the harsh voice interrupts him:
—Ohn' Retorik!
—Iow hāt nischt ausgehalten, er is' umglücklicher gewesen—
—Fakten, truckene Fakten! ruft noch umgeduldiger der Präses.
—Zu acht Tāg' hāt men ihm male gewesen—