Coming abreast of the calèche he ran beside it.

“Thrice have they slain me, thrice have I risen from the dead. They stoned me, crucified me⁠ ⁠… I shall rise⁠ ⁠… shall rise⁠ ⁠… shall rise. They have torn my body. The kingdom of God will be overthrown⁠ ⁠… Thrice will I overthrow it and thrice reestablish it!” he cried, raising his voice higher and higher.

Count Rostopchín suddenly grew pale as he had done when the crowd closed in on Vereshchágin. He turned away. “Go fas⁠ ⁠… faster!” he cried in a trembling voice to his coachman. The calèche flew over the ground as fast as the horses could draw it, but for a long time Count Rostopchín still heard the insane despairing screams growing fainter in the distance, while his eyes saw nothing but the astonished, frightened, bloodstained face of “the traitor” in the fur-lined coat.