The pain and injury she felt for the man
obscured every other sensation. Forgotten was the valise with the
books and newspapers. She had feelings only for Rybin. Tears flowed
constantly; her face was gloomy; but her voice did not tremble when
she said to her host:
"They rob a man, they choke him, they trample him in the mud--the
accursed! And when he says, 'What are you doing, you godless men?'
they beat and torture him."
"Power," returned the peasant. "They have great power."
"From where do they get it?" exclaimed the mother, thoroughly
aroused. "From us, from the people--they get everything from us."
"Ye-es," drawled the peasant. "It's a wheel." He bent his head toward
the door, listening attentively. "They're coming," he said softly.
"Who?"
"Our people, I suppose."
His wife entered. A freckled peasant, stooping, strode into the
hut after her. He threw his cap into a corner, and quickly went
up to their host.
"Well?"
The host nodded in confirmation.
"Stepan," said the wife, standing at the oven, "maybe our guest
wants to eat something."
"No, thank you, my dear."
The freckled peasant moved toward the mother and said quietly,
in a broken voice:
"Now, then, permit me to introduce myself to you.
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