"Ah, brother! You will perish—and soon, too!"
"Who betrayed you?"
"The priest!" said one of the police.
Two peasants gave vent to hard oaths.
"Look out, boys!" a somewhat subdued cry was heard in warning.
The commissioner of police walked into the crowd—a tall, compact man, with a round, red face. His cap was cocked to one side; his mustache with one end turned up the other drooping made his face seem crooked, and it was disfigured by a dull, dead grin. His left hand held a saber, his right waved broadly in the air. His heavy, firm tramp was audible. The crowd gave way before him. Something sullen and crushed appeared in their faces, and the noise died away as if it had sunk into the ground.
"What's the trouble?" asked the police commissioner, stopping in front of Rybin and measuring him with his eyes. "Why are his hands not bound? Officers, why? Bind them!" His voice was high and resonant, but colorless.
"They were tied, but the people unbound them," answered one of the policemen.
"The people! What people?" The police commissioner looked at the crowd standing in a half-circle before him. In the same monotonous, blank voice, neither elevating nor lowering it, he continued: "Who are the people?"
With a back stroke he thrust the handle of his saber against the breast of the blue-eyed peasant.