passed the house of Zosimov, the man without legs, who
received a monthly allowance from the factory because of his
mutilation, he stuck his head through, the window and cried out:

"Pavel, you scoundrel, they'll wring your head off for your doings,
you'll see!"

The mother trembled and stopped. The exclamation aroused in her a
sharp sensation of anger. She looked up at the thick, bloated face of
the cripple, and he hid himself, cursing. Then she quickened her pace,
overtook her son, and tried not to fall behind again. He and Andrey
seemed not to notice anything; not to hear the outcries that pursued
them. They moved calmly, without haste, and talked loudly about
commonplaces. They were stopped by Mironov, a modest, elderly man,
respected by everybody for his clean, sober life.

"Not working either, Daniil Ivanovich?" Pavel asked.

"My wife is going to be confined. Well, and such an exciting day,
too," Mironov responded, staring fixedly at the comrades. He said to
them in an undertone:

"Boys, I hear you're going to make an awful row--smash the
superintendent's windows."

"Why, are we drunk?" exclaimed Pavel.

"We are simply going to march along the streets with flags, and sing
songs," said the Little Russian. "You'll have a chance to hear our
songs. They're our confession of faith."

"I know your confession of faith," said Mironov thoughtfully. "I read
your papers. You, Nilovna," he exclaimed, smiling at the mother with
knowing eyes, "are you going to revolt, too?"

"Well, even if it's only before death, I want to walk shoulder to
shoulder with the truth."

"I declare!" said Mironov. "I guess they were telling the truth when
they said you carried forbidden books to the factory."

"Who said so?" asked Pavel.

"Oh, people. Well, good-by! Behave yourselves!"

The mother laughed softly; she was pleased to hear that such things
were said of her. Pavel smilingly turned to her:

"Oh, you'll get into prison, mother!"

"I don't mind," she murmured.

The sun rose higher, pouring warmth into the bracing freshness of the
spring day. The clouds floated more slowly, their shadows grew thinner
and more transparent, and crawled gently over the streets and roofs.
The bright sunlight seemed to clean the village, to wipe the dust and
dirt from the walls and the tedium from the faces. Everything assumed a
more cheerful aspect; the voices sounded louder, drowning the far-off
rumble and heavings of the