“Don’t swear, it’s a sin. I’ll believe your word. Do you give me your word?”

“Your honour!!!”

“Well, I tell you, I’ll spare you simply for your orphan’s tears. You are an orphan, aren’t you?”

“Yes, your honour, alone in the world, neither father nor mother⁠ ⁠…”

“Well, for the sake of your orphan’s tears; but mind you, it’s the last time.⁠ ⁠… Take him,” he adds in such a softhearted way that the convict does not know how to pray devoutly enough for such a benefactor.

But the fearful procession begins; he is led along; the drum begins to boom; the sticks begin flying.

“Give it him!” Zherebyatnikov bawls at the top of his voice “Whack him! Flay him, flay him! Scorch him! Lay it on, lay it on! Hit him harder, the orphan, harder, the rascal! Touch him up, touch him up!”