"There goes the wagon!"
In a few moments, after the crowd had begun to disperse, Rybin appeared again on the steps of the town hall. His hands were bound; his head and face were wrapped up in a gray cloth, and he was pushed into a waiting wagon.
"Farewell, good people!" his voice rang out in the cold evening twilight. "Search for the truth. Guard it! Believe the man who will bring you the clean word; cherish him. Don't spare yourselves in the cause of truth!"
"Silence, you dog!" shouted the voice of the police commissioner. "Policeman, start the horses up, you fool!"
"What have you to be sorry for? What sort of life have you?"
The wagon started. Sitting in it with a policeman on either side, Rybin shouted dully:
"For the sake of what are you perishing—in hunger? Strive for freedom—it'll give you bread and—truth. Farewell, good people!"
The hasty rumble of the wheels, the tramp of the horses, the shout of the police officer, enveloped his speech and muffled it.
"It's done!" said the peasant, shaking his head. "You wait at the station a little while, and I'll come soon."