The policemen led Rybin up the steps of the
town hall and disappeared with him behind the doors. People began
to depart in a hurry. The mother saw the blue-eyed peasant go
across the square and look at her sidewise. Her legs trembled under
her knees. A dismal feeling of impotence and loneliness gnawed at
her heart sickeningly.
"I mustn't go away," she thought. "I mustn't!" and holding on to
the rails firmly, she waited.
The police commissioner walked up the steps of the town hall and
said in a rebuking voice, which had assumed its former blankness
and soullessness:
"You're fools, you damned scoundrels! You don't understand a thing,
and poke your noses into an affair like this--a government affair.
Cattle! You ought to thank me, fall on your knees before me for my
goodness! If I were to say so, you would all be put to hard labor."
About a score of peasants stood with bared heads and listened in
silence. It began to grow dusk; the clouds lowered. The blue-eyed
peasant walked up to the steps, and said with a sigh:
"That's the kind of business we have here!"
"Ye-es," the mother rejoined quietly.
He looked at her with an open gaze.
"What's your occupation?" he asked after a pause.
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