that. I had come to them; not they to me. And the government, if it sends me to Siberia . . . I'm not going to grumble—though I don't regard myself as guilty. It's doing its own work, for it's guarding itself. Is that enough for you?'
Sipyagin flung up his hands.
'Enough! What a thing to say! That's not the question, and it's not for us to criticise the action of the government; what I want to know is, do you feel . . . do you, dear Sergei, feel'—(Sipyagin resolved to try an appeal to the feelings)—'the senselessness, the madness of your attempt? are you prepared to prove your repentance in act? and can I answer, to a certain extent answer, for you, Sergei?'
Markelov knitted his bushy brows.
'I have said my say . . . and I don't want to repeat it.'
'But repentance! What of your repentance?'
Suddenly Markelov grew restive.
'Ah, let me alone with your "repentance"! Do you want to crawl inside my soul? Leave that at least to me.'
Sipyagin shrugged his shoulders.
'There, you are always like that; you will never listen to the voice of reason! You have
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