A vast, bitter feeling was now springing up within him, from the depth of his soul; he followed its growth and though he did not yet understand it, he already experienced something melancholy and degrading.
"Just think, you charlatan! What have you done to yourself ?" said Reznikov.

"What sort of a life is now possible to you?
Do you know that now no one of us would care even as much as to spit on you ?" "What have I done ?" Foma tried to understand.

The merchants stood around him in a dense, dark mass.
"Well," said Yashchurov, "now, Fomka, your work is done." "Wait, we'll see," bellowed Zubov in a low voice.
"Let me free!" said Foma.
"Well, no! we thank you humbly!" "Untie me." "It's all right! You can lie that way as well." "Call up my godfather." But Yakov Tarasovich came up at this moment.

He came up, stopped near Foma, sternly surveyed with his eyes the outstretched figure of his godson, and heaved a deep sigh.
"Well, Foma," he began.
"Order them to unbind me," entreated Foma, softly, in a mournful voice.
"So you can be turbulent again?
No, no, you'd better lie this way," his godfather replied.
"I won't say another word.

I swear it by God! Unbind me.