The snow crunched in the frozen atmosphere; voices
sounded. A man in a gray Caucasian cowl looked into Sizov's face
and asked quickly:
"What was the sentence?"
"Exile."
"For all?"
"All."
"Thank you."
The man walked away.
"You see," said Sizov. "They inquire."
Suddenly they were surrounded by about ten men, youths, and girls,
and explanations rained down, attracting still more people. The
mother and Sizov stopped. They were questioned in regard to the
sentence, as to how the prisoners behaved, who delivered the
speeches, and what the speeches were about. All the voices rang
with the same eager curiosity, sincere and warm, which aroused the
desire to satisfy it.
"People! This is the mother of Pavel Vlasov!" somebody shouted, and
presently all became silent.
"Permit me to shake your hand."
Somebody's firm hand pressed the mother's fingers, somebody's voice
said excitedly:
"Your son will be an example of manhood for all of us."
"Long live the Russian workingman!" a resonant voice rang out.
"Long live the proletariat!"
"Long live the revolution!"
The shouts grew louder and increased in number, rising up on all
sides.
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