Chapter 7

           

           Anelegantcarriagestoodinthemiddleoftheroadwithapairofspiritedgreyhorses;therewasnooneinit,andthecoachmanhadgotoffhisboxandstoodby;thehorseswerebeingheldbythebridle....Amassofpeoplehadgatheredround,thepolicestandinginfront.Oneofthemheldalightedlanternwhichhewasturningonsomethinglyingclosetothewheels.Everyonewastalking,shouting,exclaiming;thecoachmanseemedatalossandkeptrepeating:

           “Whatamisfortune!GoodLord,whatamisfortune!”

           Raskolnikovpushedhiswayinasfarashecould,andsucceededatlastinseeingtheobjectofthecommotionandinterest.Onthegroundamanwhohadbeenrunoverlayapparentlyunconscious,andcoveredwithblood;hewasverybadlydressed,butnotlikeaworkman.Bloodwasflowingfromhisheadandface;hisfacewascrushed,mutilatedanddisfigured.Hewasevidentlybadlyinjured.

           “Mercifulheaven!”wailedthecoachman,“whatmorecouldIdo?IfI’dbeendrivingfastorhadnotshoutedtohim,butIwasgoingquietly,notinahurry.EveryonecouldseeIwasgoingalongjustlikeeverybodyelse.Adrunkenmancan’twalkstraight,weallknow....Isawhimcrossingthestreet,staggeringandalmostfalling.Ishoutedagainandasecondandathirdtime,thenIheldthehorsesin,buthefellstraightundertheirfeet!Eitherhediditonpurposeorhewasverytipsy....Thehorsesareyoungandreadytotakefright...theystarted,hescreamed...thatmadethemworse.

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