The merchants exchanged significant glances. Some, nudging one
another in the sides, shook their heads at Foma in silence. Yakov
Mayakin's face was dark and immobile as though hewn out of stone.
"Shall we perhaps unbind him?" whispered Bobrov.
"When we get a little nearer."
"No, it's not necessary," said Mayakin in an undertone- "We'll
leave him here. Let someone send for a carriage. We'll take him
straight to the asylum."
"And where am I to rest?" Foma muttered again. "Whither shall I
fling myself?" And he remained as though petrified in a broken,
uncomfortable attitude, all distorted, with an expression of pain
on his face.
Mayakin rose from his seat and went to the cabin, saying softly:
"Keep an eye on him, he might fling himself overboard."
"I am sorry for the fellow," said Bobrov, looking at Yakov
Tarasovich as he departed.
"No one is to blame for his madness," replied Reznikov, morosely.
"And Yakov," whispered Zubov, nodding his head in the direction
of Mayakin.
"What about Yakov? He loses nothing through it.
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