“What happened when the prison was emptied? It must have been a joyful time.”
Graybeard made a noise in his throat which might have been a chuckle, and turning from the fire stood up and straightened his back, to gaze frankly at Peter as if to ask why so many questions were being asked. It was plain that he disapproved of giving gossip extra with what he sold.
“You should have been here if you wanted to know,” he said.
“I suppose they killed the soldiers,” went on Peter.
“No, the unfortunates did not kill the soldiers—except, perhaps, the bad soldiers who had been cruel. Were not the soldiers made free also by revolution? As well as the unfortunates?”
“True,” assented Peter. “But the officers? Many of the officers were killed, eh?”
“The square down there by the station,” and graybeard threw out his arm and his eyes took on a reminiscent look, “the square is full of dead folks—old and young, officers and all, rich and poor, high and low, witches and holy men. But the unfortunates did not harm me. I am Rimsky and the friend of all, though many were drunk and did not know who were friends. But I got into a potato-cellar till the worst was over, though I was stiff in the legs a good month after. But I was out in time to see them all go off to Petersburg to kill the Little Father, the fools!”
“Would you have the Czar back? Is that what you mean?” asked Peter.
“I? Why do you ask me that? Is it not enough to know that in the old days there was peace—and that I would have peace in which to die. Should not a man have peace in which to meet the dead? That is all I ask you.”
“But are not the new times better than the old?” asked Peter. “Would you have the old times back—and the prison on the hill full of people?”