something lying close to the wheels. Every one was talking,

shouting, exclaiming; the coachman seemed at a loss and kept

"What a misfortune! Good Lord, what a misfortune!"

Raskolnikov pushed his way in as far as he could, and succeeded at

last in seeing the object of the commotion and interest. On the ground

a man who had been run over lay apparently unconscious, and covered

with blood; he was very badly dressed, but not like a workman. Blood

was flowing from his head and face; his face was crushed, mutilated