“A peasant legend! Capital! Whip up the left, Andrey!”
“So you see, sir, who it is hell’s for,” said Andrey, whipping up the left horse, “but you’re like a little child … that’s how we look on you … and though you’re hasty-tempered, sir, yet God will forgive you for your kind heart.”
“And you, do you forgive me, Andrey?”
“What should I forgive you for, sir? You’ve never done me any harm.”
“No, for everyone, for everyone, you here alone, on the road, will you forgive me for everyone? Speak, simple peasant heart!”
“Oh, sir! I feel afraid of driving you, your talk is so strange.”
But Mitya did not hear. He was frantically praying and muttering to himself.
“Lord, receive me, with all my lawlessness, and do not condemn me. Let me pass by Thy judgment … do not condemn me, for I have condemned myself, do not condemn me, for I love Thee, O Lord. I am a wretch, but I love Thee. If Thou sendest me to hell, I shall love Thee there, and from there I shall cry out that I love Thee forever and ever. … But let me love to the end. … Here and now for just five hours … till the first light of Thy day … for I love the queen of my soul … I love her and I cannot help loving her. Thou seest my whole heart. … I shall gallop up, I shall fall before her and say, ‘You are right to pass on and leave me. Farewell and forget your victim … never fret yourself about me!’ ”
“Mokroe!” cried Andrey, pointing ahead with his whip.