"We? Yes, we have. We are three brothers, and our portion is about ten acres and a half—all sand—good for polishing brass, but poor for making bread." After a pause he continued: "I've freed myself from the soil. What's the use? It does not feed; it ties one's hands. This is the fourth year that I'm working as a hired man. I've got to become a soldier this fall. Uncle Mikhaïl says: 'Don't go. Now,' he says, 'the soldiers are being sent to beat the people.' However, I think I'll go. The army existed at the time of Stepan Timofeyevich Razin and Pugachev. The time has come to make an end of it. Don't you think so?" he asked, looking firmly at Pavel.
"Yes, the time has come." The answer was accompanied by a smile. "But it's hard. You must know what to say to soldiers, and how to say it."
"We'll learn; we'll know how," Yefim said.
"And if the superiors catch you at it, they may shoot you down," Pavel concluded, looking curiously at Yefim.
"They will show no mercy," the peasant assented calmly, and resumed his examination of the books.
"Drink your tea, Yefim; we've got to leave soon," said Rybin.
"Directly." And Yefim asked again: "Revolution is an uprising, isn't it?"
Andrey came, red, perspiring, and dejected. He shook Yefim's hand without saying anything, sat down by Rybin's side, and smiled as he looked at him.
"What's the trouble? Why so blue?" Rybin asked, tapping his knee.
"Nothing."