Unconscious of the bearing of the thing, the mother's gaze was,
riveted on Rybin. He said something; she heard his voice, but
the words did not reach the dark emptiness of her heart.
She recovered her senses, and took a deep breath. A peasant with
a broad light beard was standing at the steps looking fixedly into
her face with his, blue eyes. Coughing and rubbing her throat with
her hands, weak with fear, she asked him with an effort:
"What's the matter?"
"Well, look." The peasant turned away. Another peasant came up
to her side.
"Oh, thief! How horrible you look!" shouted a woman's voice.
The policemen stepped in front of the crowd, which increased in size.
Rybin's voice sounded thick:
"Peasants, I'm not a thief; I don't steal; I don't set things on
fire. I only fight against falsehood. That's why they seized me.
Have you heard of the true books in which the truth is written about
our peasant life? Well, it's because of these writings that I
suffer. It's I who distributed them among the people."
The crowd surrounded Rybin more closely. His voice steadied the mother.
"Did you hear?" said a peasant in a low voice, nudging a blue-eyed
neighbor, who did not answer but raised his head and again looked
into the mother's face.
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