The sad songs broke off; the talking
became lower; only the noise of heavy tramping on the stones filled
the street with its dull, even sound. Over the heads of the people,
into the transparent sky, and through the air it rose like the first
peal of distant thunder. People silently bore grief and revolt in
their breasts. Was it possible to carry on the war for freedom
peacefully? A vain illusion! Hatred of violence, love of freedom
blazed up and burned the last remnants of the illusion to ashes in
the hearts that still cherished it. The steps became heavier, heads
were raised, eyes looked cold and firm, and feeling, outstripping
thought, brought forth resolve. The cold wind, waxing stronger and
stronger, carried an unfriendly cloud of dust and street litter in
front of the people. It, blew through their garments and their
hair, blinded their eyes and struck against their breasts.
The mother was pained by these silent funerals without priests and
heart-oppressing chants, with thoughtful faces, frowning brows, and
the heavy tramp of the feet. Her slowly circling thoughts
formulated her impression in the melancholy phrase:
"There are not many of you who stand up for the truth, not many;
and yet they fear you, they fear you!"
Her head bent, she strode along without looking around.
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