"Is that so? And who are you, pray? A god?"
A confused but subdued clamor drowned Rybin's voice.
"Don't argue, uncle. You're up against the authorities."
"Don't be angry, your Honor. The man's out of his wits."
"Keep still, you funny fellow!"
"Here, they'll soon take you to the city!"
"There's more law there!"
The shouts of the crowd sounded pacificatory, entreating; they blended into a thick, indistinct babel, in which there was something hopeless and pitiful. The policemen led Rybin up the steps of the town hall and disappeared with him behind the doors. People began to depart in a hurry. The mother saw the blue-eyed peasant go across the square and look at her sidewise. Her legs trembled under her knees. A dismal feeling of impotence and loneliness gnawed at her heart sickeningly.
"I mustn't go away," she thought. "I mustn't!" and holding on to the rails firmly, she waited.
The police commissioner walked up the steps of the town hall and said in a rebuking voice, which had assumed its former blankness and soullessness: