sentence in a deep, bass voice. Every one smiled; some tried to hide
their smiles behind their mustaches and their papers. Yanson pointed
his index finger at the presiding judge and answered angrily, looking
at him askance:

"You!"

"Well?"

Yanson again turned his eyes to the judge who had been silent,
restraining a smile, whom he felt to be a friend, a man who had
nothing to do with the sentence, and repeated:

"He said I should be hanged. Why must I be hanged?"

"Take the prisoner away."

But Yanson succeeded in repeating once more, convincingly and
weightily:

"Why must I be hanged?"

He looked so absurd, with his small, angry face, with his outstretched
finger, that even the soldier of the convoy, breaking the rule, said
to him in an undertone as he led him away from the courtroom:

"You are a fool, young man!"

"Why must I be hanged?" repeated Yanson stubbornly.