What do they mean by it?"

The hubbub increased and hostility waxed strong. The coffin rocked
over the heads of the people. The silken rustling of the ribbons
fluttering in the wind about the heads and faces of the carriers could
be heard amid the noise of the strife.

The mother was seized with a shuddering dread of the possible
collision, and she quickly spoke in an undertone to her neighbors on
the right and on the left:

"Why not let them have their way if they're like that? The comrades
ought to yield and remove the ribbons. What else can they do?"

A loud, sharp voice subdued all the other noises:

"We demand not to be disturbed in accompanying on his last journey one
whom you tortured to death!"

Somebody--apparently a girl--sang out in a high, piping voice:

"In mortal strife your victims fell."

"Remove the ribbons, please, Yakovlev! Cut them off!" A saber was
heard issuing from its scabbard. The mother closed her eyes, awaiting
shouts; but it grew quieter.

The people growled like wolves at bay; then silently drooping their
heads, crushed by the consciousness of impotence, they moved forward,
filling the street with the noise of their tramping. Before them
swayed the stripped cover of the coffin with the crumpled wreaths, and
swinging from side to side rode the mounted police. The mother walked
on the pavement; she was unable to see the coffin through the dense
crowd surrounding it, which imperceptibly grew and filled the whole
breadth of the street. Back of the crowd also rose the gray figures of
the mounted police; at their sides, holding their hands on their
sabers, marched the policemen on foot, and everywhere were the sharp
eyes of the spies, familiar to the mother, carefully scanning the faces
of the people.

"Good-by, comrade, good-by!" plaintively sang two beautiful voices.

"Don't!" a shout was heard. "We will be silent, comrades--for the
present."

The shout was stern and imposing; it carried an assuring threat, and it
subdued the crowd. The sad songs broke off; the talking became lower;
only the noise of heavy tramping on the stones filled the street with
its dull, even sound. Over the heads of the people, into the
transparent sky, and through the air it rose like the first peal of
distant thunder. People silently bore grief and revolt in their
breasts. Was it possible to carry on the war for freedom peacefully?
A vain illusion! Hatred of violence, love of freed