She nodded her head to him and started with a sorrowful, painful joy. But the next moment she saw that the blue-eyed peasant was standing near him and also looking at her. His gaze awakened her to the consciousness of the risk she was running.
"What am I doing? They'll take me, too."
The peasant said something to Rybin, who shook his head.
"Never mind!" he exclaimed, his voice tremulous, but clear and bold. "I'm not alone in the world. They'll not capture all the truth. In the place where I was the memory of me will remain. That's it! Even though they destroy the nest, aren't there more friends and comrades there?"
"He's saying this for me," the mother decided quickly.
"The people will build other nests for the truth; and a day will come when the eagles will fly from them into freedom. The people will emancipate themselves."
A woman brought a pail of water and, wailing and groaning, began to wash Rybin's face. Her thin, piteous voice mixed with Mikhaïl's words and hindered the mother from understanding them. A throng of peasants came up with the police commissioner in front of them. Some one shouted aloud:
"Come; I'm going to make an arrest! Who's next?"
Then the voice of the police commissioner was heard. It had changed—mortification now evident in its altered tone.
"I may strike you, but you mayn't strike me. Don't you dare, you dunce!"