With round, blood-shot eyes he gazed at the sky; they were dull and lustreless, as those of an idiot, and his chest heaved unevenly and with difficulty.
Now came their turn to mock him.

Zubov began.

He walked up to him, kicked him in the side and asked in a soft voice, all trembling with the pleasure of revenge: "Well, thunder-like prophet, how is it?
Now you can taste the sweetness of Babylonian captivity, he, he, he!" "Wait," said Foma, hoarsely, without looking at him.

"Wait until I'm rested.

You have not tied up my tongue." But saying this, Foma understood that he could no longer do anything, nor say anything.