"Why not let them have their way if they're like that? The comrades ought to yield and remove the ribbons. What else can they do?"
A loud, sharp voice subdued all the other noises:
"We demand not to be disturbed in accompanying on his last journey one whom you tortured to death!"
Somebody—apparently a girl—sang out in a high, piping voice:
"In mortal strife your victims fell."
"Remove the ribbons, please, Yakovlev! Cut them off!"
A saber was heard issuing from its scabbard. The mother closed her eyes, awaiting shouts; but it grew quieter.
The people growled like wolves at bay; then silently drooping their heads, crushed by the consciousness of impotence, they moved forward, filling the street with the noise of their tramping. Before them swayed the stripped cover of the coffin with the crumpled wreaths, and swinging from side to side rode the mounted police. The mother walked on the pavement; she was unable to see the coffin through the dense crowd surrounding it, which imperceptibly grew and filled the whole breadth of the street. Back of the crowd also rose the gray figures of the mounted police; at their sides, holding their hands on their sabers, marched the policemen on foot, and everywhere were the sharp eyes of the spies, familiar to the mother, carefully scanning the faces of the people.
"Good-by, comrade, good-by!" plaintively sang two beautiful voices.
"Don't!" a shout was heard. "We will be silent, comrades—for the present."