Page 661 - the-brothers-karamazov

fallen man. In Mitya’s hands was a brass pestle, and he
flung it mechanically in the grass. The pestle fell two paces
from Grigory, not in the grass but on the path, in a most
conspicuous place. For some seconds he examined the
prostrate figure before him. The old man’s head was cov-
ered with blood. Mitya put out his hand and began feeling it.
He remembered afterwards clearly that he had been awfully
anxious to make sure whether he had broken the old man’s
skull, or simply stunned him with the pestle. But the blood
was flowing horribly; and in a moment Mitya’s fingers were
drenched with the hot stream. He remembered taking out
of his pocket the clean white handkerchief with which he
had provided himself for his visit to Madame Hohlakov,
and putting it to the old man’s head, senselessly trying to
wipe the blood from his face and temples. But the handker-
chief was instantly soaked with blood.
‘Good heavens! What am I doing it for?’ thought Mitya,
suddenly pulling himself together. ‘If I have broken his
skull, how can I find out now? And what difference does
it make now?’ he added, hopelessly. ‘If I’ve killed him, I’ve
killed him.... You’ve come to grief, old man, so there you
must lie!’ he said aloud. And suddenly turning to the fence,
he vaulted over it into the lane and fell to running — the
handkerchief soaked with blood he held, crushed up in his
right fist, and as he ran he thrust it into the back pocket of
his coat. He ran headlong, and the few passers-by who met
him in the dark, in the streets, remembered afterwards that
they had met a man running that night. He flew back again
to the widow Morozov’s house.

0 The Brothers Karamazov