At first he could not comprehend why both the revolutionists and the officers of the spies censured the administration, why both asserted that someone wanted to deceive the people. When the people themselves, however, came out into the street, and began to speak, Yevsey stopped to think about this question.
The spies walked about slowly, indolently; they all grew strange to one another, maintaining sullen silence, and looking into the eyes of their comrades suspiciously, as if expecting something dangerous from one another. The officials ceased to talk, and sank into the background. They gave out no plans of action, and said nothing new.
"Has nothing been heard in regard to this St. Petersburg league of princes?" Krasavin asked almost every day.
Once Piotr joyously announced:
"Boys, Sasha has been summoned to St. Petersburg. He'll fix up a game there, you'll see."
Viakhirev, the hook-nosed, reddish spy, remarked lazily:
"The League of Russian People has been permitted to organize fighting bands to kill the revolutionists. I'll go there, I'm a good shot."
"A pistol is a fine thing," said someone. "You shoot, and then run away."
"How simply they speak about everything," thought Yevsey. He involuntarily recalled other conversations—Olga and Makarov—which he impatiently pushed away from himself.
Sasha returned from St. Petersburg, as it were stronger. Concentrated green sparks gleamed in his dim eyes. His voice had become deeper, his entire body seemed to have straightened and grown sounder.