After them the
policemen strode heavily among the graves, clumsily entangling
themselves in the flaps of their military coats, cursing, and
brandishing their bayonets.
"Let's hurry!" said the mother, wiping the boy's face with the
handkerchief. "What's your name?"
"Ivan." Blood spurted from his mouth. "Don't be worried; I don't
feel hurt. He hit me over the head with the handle of his saber,
and I gave him such a blow with a stick that he howled," the boy
concluded, shaking his blood-stained fist. "Wait--it'll be different.
We'll choke you without a fight, when we arise, all the working people."
"Quick--hurry!" The mother urged him on, walking swiftly toward the
little wicket gate. It seemed to her that there, behind the fence
in the field, the police were lying in wait for them, ready to
pounce on them and beat them as soon as they went out. But on
carefully opening the gate, and looking out over the field clothed
in the gray garb of autumn dusk, its stillness and solitude at once
gave her composure.
"Let me bandage your face."
"Never mind. I'm not ashamed to be seen with it as it is. The
fight was honorable--he hit me--I hit him----"
The mother hurriedly bandaged his wound.
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