Tsiganok quickly placed four fingers in his mouth, two fingers of each hand, rolled his eyes fiercely--and then the dead air of the courtroom was suddenly rent by a real, wild, murderer's whistle--at which frightened horses leap and rear on their hind legs and human faces involuntarily blanch.

The mortal anguish of him who is to be assassinated, the wild joy of the murderer, the dreadful warning, the call, the gloom and loneliness of a stormy autumn night--all this rang in his piercing shriek, which was neither human nor beastly.
The presiding officer shouted--then waved his arm at Tsiganok, and Tsiganok obediently became silent.

And, like an artist who had triumphantly performed a difficult aria, he sat down, wiped his wet fingers upon his coat, and surveyed those present with an air of satisfaction.
"What a robber!" said one of the judges, rubbing his ear.
Another one, however, with a wild Russian beard, but with the eyes of a Tartar, like those of Tsiganok, gazed pensively above Tsiganok's head, then smiled and remarked: "It is indeed interesting." With light hearts, without mercy, without the slightest pangs of conscience, the judges brought out against Tsiganok a verdict of death.
"Correct!" said Tsiganok, when the verdict was pronounced.

"In the open field and on a cross-beam! Correct!" And turning to the convoy, he hurled with bravado: "Well, are we not going?
Come on, you sour-coat.

And hold your gun--I might take it away from you!" The soldier looked at him sternly, with fear, exchanged glances with his comrade, and felt the lock of his gun.