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"Be silent," Katerina Ivanovna cried irritably, "you know why she

is barefooted."

"Thank God, the doctor," exclaimed Raskolnikov, relieved.

The doctor came in, a precise little old man, a German, looking

about him mistrustfully; he went up to the sick man, took his

pulse, carefully felt his head and with the help of Katerina

Ivanovna he unbuttoned the blood-stained shirt, and bared the

injured man's chest. It was gashed, crushed and fractured,

several ribs on the right side were broken. On the left side,

just over the heart, was a large, sinister-looking

yellowish-black bruise--a cruel kick from the horse's hoof. The

doctor frowned. The policeman told him that he was caught in the

wheel and turned round with it for thirty yards on the road.

"It's wonderful that he has recovered consciousness," the doctor

whispered softly to Raskolnikov.

"What do you think of him?" he asked.

"He will die immediately."

"Is there really no hope?"