"The people will build other nests for the truth; and a day will
come when the eagles will fly from them into freedom. The people
will emancipate themselves."
A woman brought a pail of water and, wailing and groaning, began
to wash Rybin's face. Her thin, piteous voice mixed with Mikhail's
words and hindered the mother from understanding them. A throng
of peasants came up with the police commissioner in front of them.
Some one shouted aloud:
"Come; I'm going to make an arrest! Who's next?"
Then the voice of the police commissioner was heard. It had changed--
mortification now evident in its altered tone.
"I may strike you, but you mayn't strike me. Don't you dare, you dunce!"
"Is that so? And who are you, pray? A god?"
A confused but subdued clamor drowned Rybin's voice.
"Don't argue, uncle. You're up against the authorities."
"Don't be angry, your Honor. The man's out of his wits."
"Keep still, you funny fellow!"
"Here, they'll soon take you to the city!"
"There's more law there!"
The shouts of the crowd sounded pacificatory, entreating; they
blended into a thick, indistinct babel, in which there was something
hopeless and pitiful.
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