In the same monotonous,
blank voice, neither elevating nor lowering it, he continued:
"Who are the people?"
With a back stroke he thrust the handle of his saber against the
breast of the blue-eyed peasant.
"Are you the people, Chumakov? Well, who else? You, Mishin?" and
he pulled somebody's beard with his right hand.
"Disperse, you curs!"
Neither his voice nor face displayed the least agitation or threat.
He spoke mechanically, with a dead calm, and with even movements of
his strong, long hands, pushed the people back. The semicircle
before him widened. Heads drooped, faces were turned aside.
"Well," he addressed the policeman, "what's the matter with you?
Bind him!" He uttered a cynical oath and again looked at Rybin,
and said nonchalantly: "Your hands behind your back, you!"
"I don't want my hands to be bound," said Rybin. "I'm not going
to run away, and I'm not fighting. Why should my hands be bound?"
"What?" exclaimed the police commissioner, striding up to him.
"It's enough that you torture the people, you beasts!" continued
Rybin in an elevated voice. "The red day will soon come for you,
too. You'll be paid back for everything.
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