"I can't give beatings, but I like to give lashings. I remember how I used to flog my nephew, gee!"
From a corner flowed the voice of Sasha, falling incessantly like water dripping from roofs on a rainy day, monotonous as the sound of chants recited in church.
"Every time you meet those fellows with red flags beat them. First beat the men carrying the flags, the rest will take to flight."
"And if they don't?"
"You will have revolvers. So that if you see people known to you by their participation in secret societies—those people upon whom you spied in your time—who were released from the prisons to-day by the insubordination of the unbridled mob—kill them outright!"
"That's reasonable," said somebody, whose voice resembled Pantaleyev's. "Either we, or they."
"Of course. How else?"
"The people have gotten their liberty, but what are we to do?" replied Viakhirev sharply.
Yevsey walked into a corner, where he leaned against a pile of wood, and looked and listened in perplexity.
"A body, a little body, a tiny, wee little calf, meat!" the senseless words of Solovyov spread out like a thick, oily spot.