The peasant looked into the eyes of his guest questioningly, and, smiling again, he continued:
"He's a man of great force, he is brave, he speaks straight out. They beat him, and he keeps on his own way."
The peasant's uncertain, weak voice, his unfinished, but clear face, his open eyes, inspired the mother with more and more confidence. Instead of alarm and despondency, a sharp, shooting pity for Rybin filled her bosom. Overwhelmed by her feelings, unable to restrain herself, she suddenly burst out in bitter malice:
"Robbers, bigots!" and she broke into sobs.
The peasant walked away from her, sullenly nodding his head.
"The authorities have hired a whole lot of assistants to do their dirty work for them. Yes, yes." He turned abruptly toward the mother again and said softly: "Here's what I guessed—that you have papers in the valise. Is that true?"
"Yes," answered the mother simply, wiping away her tears. "I was bringing them to him."
He lowered his brows, gathered his beard into his hand, and looking on the floor was silent for a time.
"The papers reached us, too; some books, also. We need them all. They are so true. I can do very little reading myself, but I have a friend—he can. My wife also reads to me." The peasant pondered for a moment. "Now, then, what are you going to do with them—with the valise?"
The mother looked at him.