"So this is the point we've reached," he said. "My God! Bloodshed! What do you think, eh?"
"What happened?" Yevsey asked.
Viekov looked around warily, took Klimkov by the hand, and whispered:
"This morning the people in St. Petersburg with a priest and sacred banners marched to the Czar Emperor. You understand? But they were not admitted. The soldiers were stationed about, and blood was spilled."
A handsome staid gentleman, Leontyev, ran past them, glanced back at Viekov through his pince nez, and asked:
"Where is Filip Filippovich?"
But he disappeared without waiting for the information he wanted, and Viekov ran after him.
Yevsey closed his eyes for a minute, in order to try in the darkness to get at the meaning of what had been told him. He could easily represent to himself a mass of people walking through the streets in a sacred procession, but since he could not understand why the soldiers had shot at them, he was skeptical about the affair. However, the general agitation seized him, too, and he felt disturbed and ill at ease. He wanted to bustle about with the spies, but unable to make up his mind to approach those he knew, he merely retreated still farther into his corner.
Many persons passed by him, all of whom, he fancied, were quickly searching for a little cosy corner where they might stand to collect their thoughts.
Maklakov appeared. He remained near the door with his hands thrust into his pockets, and looked sidewise at everybody. Melnikov approached him.