“Count!” exclaimed the timid yet theatrical voice of Vereshchágin in the midst of the momentary silence that ensued, “Count! One God is above us both.⁠ ⁠…” He lifted his head and again the thick vein in his thin neck filled with blood and the color rapidly came and went in his face.

He did not finish what he wished to say.

“Cut him down! I command it⁠ ⁠…” shouted Rostopchín, suddenly growing pale like Vereshchágin.

“Draw sabers!” cried the dragoon officer, drawing his own.

Another still stronger wave flowed through the crowd and reaching the front ranks carried it swaying to the very steps of the porch. The tall youth, with a stony look on his face, and rigid and uplifted arm, stood beside Vereshchágin.

“Saber him!” the dragoon officer almost whispered.