No, it's not empty. It's very heavily loaded."
"Well, what of it?"
The peasant rose, approached her, bent over her, and whispered:
"Do you know that man?"
The mother started, but answered firmly:
"I do."
Her laconic reply, as it were, kindled a light within her which
rendered everything outside clear. She sighed in relief. Shifting
her position on the bench, she settled herself more firmly on it,
while the peasant laughed broadly.
"I guessed it--when you made the sign--and he, too. I asked him,
whispering in his ear, whether he knows the woman standing on the steps."
"And what did he say?"
"He? He says 'there are a great many of us.' Yes--'there are a
great many of us,' he says."
The peasant looked into the eyes of his guest questioningly, and,
smiling again, he continued:
"He's a man of great force, he is brave, he speaks straight out.
They beat him, and he keeps on his own way."
The peasant's uncertain, weak voice, his unfinished, but clear face,
his open eyes, inspired the mother with more and more confidence.
Instead of alarm and despondency, a sharp, shooting pity for Rybin
filled her bosom. Overwhelmed by her feelings, unable to restrain
herself, she suddenly burst out in bitter malice:
"Robbers, bigots!" and she broke into sobs.
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