Her hands clutched at her bosom.
She staggered from repeated thrusts. She walked onward without
thought, almost without consciousness. She felt that behind her
the crowd was getting thinner; a cold wind had blown on them and
scattered them like autumn leaves.
The men around the red banner moved closer and closer together.
The faces of the soldiers were clearly seen across the entire width
of the street, monstrously flattened, stretched out in a dirty
yellowish band. In it were unevenly set variously colored eyes,
and in front the sharp bayonets glittered crudely. Directed against
the breasts of the people, although not yet touching them, they
drove them apart, pushing one man after the other away from the
crowd and breaking it up.
Behind her the mother heard the trampling noise of those who were
running away. Suppressed, excited voices cried:
"Disperse, boys!"
"Vlasov, run!"
"Back, Pavel!"
"Drop the banner, Pavel!" Vyesovshchikov said glumly. "Give it to
me! I'll hide it!"
He grabbed the pole with his hand; the flag rocked backward.
"Let go!" thundered Pavel.
Nikolay drew his hand back as if it had been burned. The song died
away.
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