He encouraged himself with the live noise of the grating springs, of the rustling blanket; and to assure himself that he was actually alive and not dead, he uttered in a bass voice, loudly and abruptly, in the silence and solitude of the bedroom: "Molodtsi! Molodtsi! Molodtsi! (Good boys)!" He was praising the detectives, the police, and the soldiers--all those who guarded his life, and who so opportunely and so cleverly had averted the assassination.

But even though he stirred, even though he praised his protectors, even though he forced an unnatural smile, in order to express his contempt for the foolish, unsuccessful terrorists, he nevertheless did not believe in his safety, he was not sure that his life would not leave him suddenly, at once.

Death, which people had devised for him, and which was only in their minds, in their intention, seemed to him to be already standing there in the room.

It seemed to him that Death would remain standing there, and would not go away until those people had been captured, until the bombs had been taken from them, until they had been placed in a strong prison.

There Death was standing in the corner, and would not go away--it could not go away, even as an obedient sentinel stationed on guard by a superior's will and order.
"At one o'clock in the afternoon, your Excellency!" this phrase kept ringing, changing its tone continually: now it was cheerfully mocking, now angry, now dull and obstinate.