"Are you the people, Chumakov? Well, who else? You, Mishin?" and he pulled somebody's beard with his right hand.
"Disperse, you curs!"
Neither his voice nor face displayed the least agitation or threat. He spoke mechanically, with a dead calm, and with even movements of his strong, long hands, pushed the people back. The semicircle before him widened. Heads drooped, faces were turned aside.
"Well," he addressed the policeman, "what's the matter with you? Bind him!" He uttered a cynical oath and again looked at Rybin, and said nonchalantly: "Your hands behind your back, you!"
"I don't want my hands to be bound," said Rybin. "I'm not going to run away, and I'm not fighting. Why should my hands be bound?"
"What?" exclaimed the police commissioner, striding up to him.
"It's enough that you torture the people, you beasts!" continued Rybin in an elevated voice. "The red day will soon come for you, too. You'll be paid back for everything."
The police commissioner stood before him, his mustached upper lip twitching. Then he drew back a step, and with a whistling voice sang out in surprise:
"Um! you damned scoundrel! Wha-at? What do you mean by your words? People, you say? A-a——"
Suddenly he dealt Rybin a quick, sharp blow in the face.