It seemed to him that he
alone, that only his strength was turning the lever, thus raising
the weight, and that his strength was growing and growing.
Stooping, and lowering his head, like a bull he massed the power
of the weight, which threw him back, but yielded to him,
nevertheless. Each step forward excited him the more, each
expended effort was immediately replaced in him by a flood of
burning and vehement pride. His head reeled, his eyes were blood-
shot, he saw nothing, he only felt that they were yielding to
him, that he would soon conquer, that he would overthrow with his
strength something huge which obstructed his way--would
overthrow, conquer and then breathe easily and freely, full of
proud delight. For the first time in his life he experienced such
a powerful, spiritualizing sensation, and he drank it with all
the strength of a hungry, thirsty soul; he was intoxicated by it
and he gave vent to his joy in loud, exulting cries in unison
with the workers:
"It goes--it goes--it goes."
"Hold on! Fasten! Hold on, boys!"
Something dashed against Foma's chest, and he was hurled
backward.
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