Nekhludoff got down and, following the cart, again passed the sentinel and entered the gate of the police station. By this time the firemen had finished washing the cart, and a tall, bony man, the chief of the fire brigade, with a coloured band round his cap, stood in their place, and, with his hands in his pockets, was severely looking at a fat-necked, well-fed, bay stallion that was being led up and down before him by a fireman. The stallion was lame on one of his fore feet, and the chief of the firemen was angrily saying something to a veterinary who stood by.
The police officer was also present. When he saw the cart he went up to the convoy soldier.
"Where did you bring him from?" he asked, shaking his head disapprovingly.
"From the Gorbatovskaya," answered the policeman.
"A prisoner?" asked the chief of the fire brigade.
"Yes. It's the second to-day."
"Well, I must say they've got some queer arrangements. Though of course it's a broiling day," said the chief of the fire brigade; then, turning to the fireman who was leading the lame stallion, he shouted: "Put him into the corner stall. And as to you, you hound, I'll teach you how to cripple horses which are worth more than you are, you scoundrel."
The dead man was taken from the cart by the policemen just in the same way as the first had been, and carried upstairs into the hospital. Nekhludoff followed them as if he were hypnotised.
"What do you want?" asked one of the policemen. But Nekhludoff did not answer, and followed where the body was being carried.
The madman, sitting on a bed, was smoking greedily the cigarette Nekhludoff had given him.
"Ah, you've come back," he said, and laughed. When he saw the body he made a face, and said, "Again! I am sick of it. I am not a boy, am I, eh?" and he turned to Nekhludoff with a questioning smile.