"Murderers! Where are you going? There are soldiers over there!" And suddenly clasping the mother's hand in her bony hands, the tall, thin woman exclaimed: "My dear! How they sing! Oh, the sectarians! And Mitya is singing!"
"Don't be troubled!" murmured the mother. "It's a sacred thing. Think of it! Christ would not have been, either, if men hadn't perished for his sake."
This thought had flashed across the mother's mind all of a sudden and struck her by its simple, clear truth. She stared at the woman, who held her hand firmly in her clasp, and repeated, smiling:
"Christ would not have been, either, if men hadn't suffered for his sake."
Sizov appeared at her side. He took off his hat and waving it to the measure of the song, said:
"They're marching openly, eh, mother? And composed a song, too! What a song, mother, eh?"
"The Czar for the army soldiers must have,
Then give him your sons——"
"They're not afraid of anything," said Sizov. "And my son is in the grave. The factory crushed him to death, yes!"
The mother's heart beat rapidly, and she began to lag behind. She was soon pushed aside hard against a fence, and the close-packed crowd went streaming past her. She saw that there were many people, and she was pleased.
"Rise up, awake, you workingmen!"