Andrey slowly rose, straightened himself, and pulling his mustache looked at the old man from the corners of his eyes.
"Yes! To what can I confess myself guilty?" said the Little Russian in his slow, surging voice, shrugging his shoulders. "I did not murder nor steal; I simply am not in agreement with an order of life in which people are compelled to rob and kill one another."
"Answer briefly—yes or no?" the old man said with an effort, but distinctly.
On the benches back of her the mother felt there was animation; the people began to whisper to one another about something and stirred, sighing as if freeing themselves from the cobweb spun about them by the gray words of the porcelain-faced man.
"Do you hear how they speak?" whispered Sizov.
"Yes."
"Fedor Mazin, answer!"
"I don't want to!" said Fedya clearly, jumping to his feet. His face reddened with excitation, his eyes sparkled. For some reason he hid his hands behind his back.
Sizov groaned softly, and the mother opened her eyes wide in astonishment.
"I declined a defense—I'm not going to say anything—I don't regard your court as legal! Who are you? Did the people give you the right to judge us? No, they did not! I don't know you." He sat down and concealed his heated face behind Andrey's shoulders.