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not dare； and with difficulty； smearing his hand and the axe in the
blood； after two minutes' hurried effort； he cut the string and took
it off without touching the body with the axe； he was not mistaken… it
was a purse。 On the string were two crosses； one of Cyprus wood and
one of copper； and an image in silver filigree； and with them a
small greasy chamois leather purse with a steel rim and ring。 The
purse was stuffed very full； Raskolnikov thrust it in his pocket
without looking at it； flung the crosses on the old woman's body and
rushed back into the bedroom； this time taking the axe with him。
He was in terrible haste； he snatched the keys； and began trying
them again。 But he was unsuccessful。 They would not fit in the
locks。 It was not so much that his hands were shaking； but that he
kept making mistakes； though he saw for instance that a key was not
the right one and would not fit； still he tried to put it in。 Suddenly
he remembered and realised that the big key with the deep notches；
which was hanging there with the small keys could not possibly
belong to the chest of drawers （on his last visit this had struck
him）； but to some strong box； and that everything perhaps was hidden
in that box。 He left the chest of drawers； and at once felt under
the bedstead； knowing that old women usually keep boxes under their
beds。 And so it was； there was a good…sized box under the bed； at
least a yard in length； with an arched lid covered with red leather
and studded with steel nails。 The notched key fitted at once and
unlocked it。 At the top； under a white sheet； was a coat of red
brocade lined with hareskin； under it was a silk dress； then a shawl
and it seemed as though there was nothing below but clothes。 The first
thing he did was to wipe his blood…stained hands on the red brocade。
〃It's red； and on red blood will be less noticeable；〃 the thought
passed through his mind； then he suddenly came to himself。 〃Good
God； am I going out of my senses？〃 he thought with terror。
But no sooner did he touch the clothes than a gold watch slipped
from under the fur coat。 He made haste to turn them all over。 There
turned out to be various articles made of gold among the
clothes…probably all pledges； unredeemed or waiting to be redeemed…
bracelets； chains； ear…rings； pins and such things。 Some were in
cases； others simply wrapped in newspaper； carefully and exactly
folded； and tied round with tape。 Without any delay； he began
filling up the pockets of his trousers and overcoat without
examining or undoing the parcels and cases； but he had not time to
take many。。。。
He suddenly heard steps in the room where the old woman lay。 He
stopped short and was still as death。 But all was quiet； so it must
have been his fancy。 All at once he heard distinctly a faint cry； as
though some one had uttered a low broken moan。 Then again dead silence
for a minute or two。 He sat squatting on his heels by the box and
waited holding his breath。 Suddenly he jumped up； seized the axe and
ran out of the bedroom。
In the middle of the room stood Lizaveta with a big bundle in her
arms。 She was gazing in stupefaction at her murdered sister； white
as a sheet and seeming not to have the strength to cry out。 Seeing him
run out of the bedroom； she began faintly quivering all over； like a
leaf； a shudder ran down her face； she lifted her hand； opened her
mouth； but still did not scream。 She began slowly backing away from
him into the corner； staring intently； persistently at him； but
still uttered no sound； as though she could not get breath to
scream。 He rushed at her with the axe； her mouth twitched piteously；
as one sees babies' mouths； when they begin to be frightened； stare
intently at what frightens them and are on the point of screaming。 And
this hapless Lizaveta was so simple and had been so thoroughly crushed
and scared that she did not even raise a hand to guard her face；
though that was the most necessary and natural action at the moment；
for the axe was raised over her face。 She only put up her empty left
hand； but not to her face； slowly holding it out before her as
though motioning him away。 The axe fell with the sharp edge just on
the skull and split at one blow all the top of the head。 She fell
heavily at once。 Raskolnikov completely lost his head； snatched up her
bundle； dropped it again and ran into the entry。
Fear gained more and more mastery over him； especially after this
second； quite unexpected murder。 He longed to run away from the
place as fast as possible。 And if at that moment he had been capable
of seeing and reasoning more correctly； if he had been able to realise
all the difficulties of his position； the hopelessness； the
hideousness and the absurdity of it； if he could have understood how
many obstacles and； perhaps； crimes he had still to overcome or to
commit； to get out of that place and to make his way home； it is
very possible that he would have flung up everything； and would have
gone to give himself up； and not from fear； but from simple horror and
loathing of what he had done。 The feeling of loathing especially
surged up within him and grew stronger every minute。 He would not
now have gone to the box or even into the room for anything in the
world。
But a sort of blankness； even dreaminess had begun by degrees to
take possession of him； at moments he forgot himself； or rather；
forgot what was of importance； and caught at trifles。 Glancing；
however； into the kitchen and seeing a bucket half full of water on
a bench； he bethought him of washing his hands and the axe。 His
hands were sticky with blood。 He dropped the axe with the blade in the
water； snatched a piece of soap that lay in a broken saucer on the
window； and began washing his hands in the bucket。 When they were
clean； he took out the axe； washed the blade and spent a long time；
about three minutes； washing the wood where there were spots of
blood rubbing them with soap。 Then he wiped it all with some linen
that was hanging to dry on a line in the kitchen and then he was a
long while att