"Turn his face the other way," the paunchy terrorist directed, in an
excited, gleeful squeak.
Razumov could struggle no longer. He was exhausted; he had to watch
passively the heavy open hand of the brute descend again in a degrading
blow over his other ear. It seemed to split his head in two, and all at
once the men holding him became perfectly silent--soundless as shadows.
In silence they pulled him brutally to his feet, rushed with him
noiselessly down the staircase, and, opening the door, flung him out
into the street.
He fell forward, and at once rolled over and over helplessly, going down
the short slope together with the rush of running rain water. He came to
rest in the roadway of the street at the bottom, lying on his back,
with a great flash of lightning over his face--a vivid, silent flash of
lightning which blinded him utterly. He picked himself up, and put his
arm over his eyes to recover his sight. Not a sound reached him from
anywhere, and he began to walk, staggering, down a long, empty street.
The lightning waved and darted round him its silent flames, the water of
the deluge fell, ran, leaped, drove--noiseless like the drift of mist.
In this unearthly stillness his footsteps fell silent on the pavement,
while a dumb wind drove him on and on, like a lost mortal in a phantom
world ravaged by a soundless thunderstorm.
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