"A peasant can't get on for a day without an axe. And your neighbour
Ivan Timofeyitch, with whom you mended a sledge, has given evidence
that it is your axe. . . ."

"I can't say about that, but I swear before God (Harlamov held out
his hand before him and spread out the fingers), before the living
God. And I don't remember how long it is since I did have an axe
of my own. I did have one like that only a bit smaller, but my son
Prohor lost it. Two years before he went into the army, he drove
off to fetch wood, got drinking with the fellows, and lost it. . . ."

"Good, sit down."

This systematic distrust and disinclination to hear him probably
irritated and offended Harlamov. He blinked and red patches came
out on his cheekbones.

"I swear in the sight of God," he went on, craning his neck forward.
"If you don't believe me, be pleased to ask my son Prohor. Proshka,
what did you do with the axe?" he suddenly asked in a rough voice,
turning abruptly to the soldier escorting him. "Where is it?"

It was a painful moment! Everyone seemed to wince and as it were
shrink together. The same fearful, incredible thought flashed like
lightning through every head in the court, the thought of possibly
fatal coincidence, and not one person in the court dared to look
at the soldier's face. Everyone refused to trust his thought and
believed that he had heard wrong.

"Prisoner, conversation with the guards is forbidden . . ." the