“Back! To the town! To the Governor.”
And someone insinuatingly, in a voice trembling with feeling:
“That’s a collusive agreement. That was done on purpose. He was instigated, and made drunk to give him courage.”
“No, it’s a revolt!”
“Bind him! Just bind him!”
Foma grasped a champagne bottle and swung it in the air.
“Come on now! No, it seems that you will have to listen to me.”
With renewed fury, frantic with joy at seeing these people shrinking and quailing under the blows of his words, Foma again started to shout names and vulgar oaths, and the exasperated tumult was hushed once more. The men, whom Foma did not know, gazed at him with eager curiosity, with approval, while some looked at him even with joyous surprise. One of them, a gray-haired little old man with rosy cheeks and small mouse eyes, suddenly turned toward the merchants, who had been abused by Foma, and said in a sweet voice:
“These are words from the conscience! That’s nothing! You must endure it. That’s a prophetic accusation. We are sinful. To tell the truth we are very—”
He was hissed, and Zubov even jostled him on the shoulder. He made a low bow and disappeared in the crowd.