"
"That's right. Well, tell us the story."
Yefim brought a pitcher of milk, took a cup from the table, rinsed it
with water, and after filling it shoved it across the table to Sofya.
He moved about noiselessly, listening to the mother's narrative.
When the mother had concluded her short account, all were silent
for a moment, looking at one another. Ignaty, sitting at the table,
drew a pattern with his nails on the boards. Yefim stood behind
Rybin, resting his elbows on his shoulders. Yakob leaned against
the trunk of a tree, his hands folded over his chest, his head
inclined. Sofya observed the peasants from the corner of her eye.
"Yes," Rybin drawled sullenly. "That's the course of action they've
decided on--to go out openly."
"If we were to arrange such a parade here," said Yefim, with a surly
smile, "they'd hack the peasants to death."
"They certainly would," Ignaty assented, nodding his head. "No,
I'll go to the factory. It's better there."
"You say Pavel's going to be tried?" asked Rybin.
"Yes. They've decided on a trial."
"Well, what'll he get? Have you heard?"
"Hard labor, or exile to Siberia for life," answered the mother
softly.
Pages:
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355