official property, or as though he were not being judged by living
men, but by some unseen machine, set going, goodness knows how or
by whom. . . .

The peasant, reassured, did not understand that the men here were
as accustomed to the dramas and tragedies of life and were as blunted
by the sight of them as hospital attendants are at the sight of
death, and that the whole horror and hopelessness of his position
lay just in this mechanical indifference. It seemed that if he were
not to sit quietly but to get up and begin beseeching, appealing
with tears for their mercy, bitterly repenting, that if he were to
die of despair--it would all be shattered against blunted nerves
and the callousness of custom, like waves against a rock.

When the secretary finished, the president for some reason passed
his hands over the table before him, looked for some time with his
eyes screwed up towards the prisoner, and then asked, speaking
languidly:

"Prisoner at the bar, do you plead guilty to having murdered your
wife on the evening of the ninth of June?"

"No, sir," answered the prisoner, getting up and holding his gown
over his chest.

After this the court proceeded hurriedly to the examination of
witnesses. Two peasant women and five men and the village policeman
who had made the enquiry were questioned. All of them, mud-bespattered,
exhausted with their long walk and waiting in the witnesses' room,
gloomy and dispirited, gave the same evidence. They testified that