She stopped again.
She sighed painfully, and listened. Somewhere ahead she heard the
hum of voices. Leaning on the pole she resumed her walk. Her
eyebrows moved up and down, and she suddenly broke into a sweat; her
lips quivered; she waved her hands, and certain words flashed up in
her heart like sparks, kindling in her a strong, stubborn desire to
speak them, to shout them.
The by-street turned abruptly to the left; and around the corner the
mother saw a large, dense crowd of people. Somebody's voice was
speaking loudly and firmly:
"They don't go to meet the bayonets from sheer audacity. Remember that!"
"Just look at them. Soldiers advance against them, and they stand
before them without fear. Y-yes!"
"Think of Pasha Vlasov!"
"And how about the Little Russian?"
"Hands behind his back and smiling, the devil!"
"My dear ones! My people!" the mother shouted, pushing into the crowd.
They cleared the way for her respectfully. Somebody laughed:
"Look at her with the flag in her hand!"
"Shut up!" said another man sternly.
The mother with a broad sweep of her arms cried out:
"Listen for the sake of Christ! You are all dear people, you are
all good people.
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