But when the chairman said, “Comrade Elisaveta, the word belongs to you,” she suddenly became calm and, having ascended the high stump that served as the platform, began to speak. Her deep, measured voice carried far. Some one seemed to echo it in the wood—it was like a fantastic, restless din. A being beloved by her and near to her sat there and listened; her beloved, near comrades also listened. Hundreds of attentive eyes followed her, and the dear friendly looks, converging like lances under a shield, held her very high in the pure atmosphere of happiness.
The sweet moments of joy passed by like a short dream. She ended her speech and came down among the audience, where she was received with flattering comments and strong pressures of the hand—sometimes, it must be confessed, a little over-strong.
“I say, comrade, you’ll break my hand. How strong you are!”
And his face would also break into a joyous smile.
The speeches ended. The songs began. The wood re-echoed with proud, brave words, with a song of freedom and revolt. Suddenly the song stopped short, a confused murmur ran through the crowd. Some one shouted:
“The Cossacks!”
Some one shouted:
“Run, comrades!”
Some one ran. Some one shouted:
“Be calm, comrades!”