r them the policemen
strode heavily among the graves, clumsily entangling themselves in the
flaps of their military coats, cursing, and brandishing their bayonets.

"Let's hurry!" said the mother, wiping the boy's face with the
handkerchief. "What's your name?"

"Ivan." Blood spurted from his mouth. "Don't be worried; I don't feel
hurt. He hit me over the head with the handle of his saber, and I gave
him such a blow with a stick that he howled," the boy concluded,
shaking his blood-stained fist. "Wait--it'll be different. We'll choke
you without a fight, when we arise, all the working people."

"Quick--hurry!" The mother urged him on, walking swiftly toward the
little wicket gate. It seemed to her that there, behind the fence in
the field, the police were lying in wait for them, ready to pounce on
them and beat them as soon as they went out. But on carefully opening
the gate, and looking out over the field clothed in the gray garb of
autumn dusk, its stillness and solitude at once gave her composure.

"Let me bandage your face."

"Never mind. I'm not ashamed to be seen with it as it is. The fight
was honorable--he hit me--I hit him----"

The mother hurriedly bandaged his wound. The sight of fresh, flowing
blood filled her breast with terror and pity. Its humid warmth on her
fingers sent a cold, fine tremor through her body. Then, holding his
hand, she silently and quickly conducted the wounded youth through the
field. Freeing his mouth of the bandage, he said with a smile:

"But where are you taking me, comrade? I can go by myself."

But the mother perceived that he was reeling with faintness, that his
legs were unsteady, and his hands twitched. He spoke to her in a weak
voice, and questioned her without waiting for an answer:

"I'm a tinsmith, and who are you? There were three of us in Yegor
Ivanovich's circle--three tinsmiths--and there were twelve men in all.
We loved him very much--may he have eternal life!--although I don't
believe in God--it's they, the dogs, that dupe us with God, so that we
should obey the authorities and suffer life patiently without kicking."

In one of the streets the mother hailed a cab and put Ivan into it. She
whispered, "Now be silent," and carefully wrapped his face up in the
handkerchief. He raised his hand to his face, but was no longer able
to free his mouth. His hand fell feebly on his knees; nevertheless he
continued to mutter through the bandages:

"I