r truth is
necessary to them, too. Just now they do not understand this; but the
time is nearing when they will rise with us, when they will march, not
under the banner of robbers and murderers, the banner which the liars
and beasts order them to call the banner of glory and honor, but under
our banner of freedom and goodness! We ought to go forward so that
they should understand our truth the sooner. Forward, comrades! Ever
forward!"

Pavel's voice sounded firm, the words rang in the air distinctly. But
the crowd fell asunder; one after the other the people dropped off to
the right or to the left, going toward their homes, or leaning against
the fences. Now the crowd had the shape of a wedge, and its point was
Pavel, over whose head the banner of the laboring people was burning
red.

At the end of the street, closing the exit to the square, the mother
saw a low, gray wall of men, one just like the other, without faces. On
the shoulder of each a bayonet was smiling its thin, chill smile; and
from this entire immobile wall a cold gust blew down on the workmen,
striking the breast of the mother and penetrating her heart.

She forced her way into the crowd among people familiar to her, and, as
it were, leaned on them.

She pressed closely against a tall, lame man with a clean-shaven face.
In order to look at her, he had to turn his head stiffly.

"What do you want? Who are you?" he asked her.

"The mother of Pavel Vlasov," she answered, her knees trembling beneath
her, her lower lip involuntarily dropping.

"Ha-ha!" said the lame man. "Very well!"

"Comrades!" Pavel cried. "Onward all your lives. There is no other
way for us! Sing!"

The atmosphere grew tense. The flag rose and rocked and waved over the
heads of the people, gliding toward the gray wall of soldiers. The
mother trembled. She closed her eyes; and cried: "Oh--oh!"

None but Pavel, Andrey, Samoylov, and Mazin advanced beyond the crowd.

The limpid voice of Fedya Mazin slowly quivered in the air.

"'In mortal strife--'" he began the song.

"'You victims fell--'" answered thick, subdued voices. The words
dropped in two heavy sighs. People stepped forward, each footfall
audible. A new song, determined and resolute, burst out:

"You yielded up your lives for them."

Fedya's voice wreathed and curled like a bright ribbon.

"A-ha-ha-ha!" some one exclaimed derisively. "They've struck up a
funeral song, the dirty dogs!"

"Bea