It moved on evenly, coolly, carrying in front of itself a
fine-toothed comb of sparkling bayonets. Then it came to a stand.
The mother took long steps to get nearer to her son. She saw how
Andrey strode ahead of Pavel and fenced him off with his long body.
"Get alongside of me!" Pavel shouted sharply. Andrey was singing,
his hands clasped behind his back, his head uplifted. Pavel pushed
him with his shoulder, and again cried:
"At my side! Let the banner be in front!"
"Disperse!" called a little officer in a thin voice, brandishing
a white saber. He lifted his feet high, and without bending his
knees struck his soles on the ground irritably. The high polish
on his boots caught the eyes of the mother.
To one side and somewhat behind him walked a tall, clean-shaven man,
with a thick, gray mustache. He wore a long gray overcoat with a
red underlining, and yellow stripes on his trousers. His gait was
heavy, and like the Little Russian, he clasped his hands behind his
back. He regarded Pavel, raising his thick gray eyebrows.
The mother seemed to be looking into infinity. At each breath her
breast was ready to burst with a loud cry. It choked her, but for
some reason she restrained it.
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