e truth is written about our peasant
life? Well, it's because of these writings that I suffer. It's I who
distributed them among the people."

The crowd surrounded Rybin more closely. His voice steadied the mother.

"Did you hear?" said a peasant in a low voice, nudging a blue-eyed
neighbor, who did not answer but raised his head and again looked into
the mother's face. The other peasant also looked at her. He was
younger than he of the blue eyes, with a dark, sparse beard, and a lean
freckled face. Then both of them turned away to the side of the steps.

"They're afraid," the mother involuntarily noted. Her attention grew
keener. From the elevation of the stoop she clearly saw the dark face
of Rybin, distinguished the hot gleam of his eyes. She wanted that he,
too, should see her, and raised herself on tiptoe and craned her neck.

The people looked at him sullenly, distrustfully, and were silent. Only
in the rear of the crowd subdued conversation was heard.

"Peasants!" said Rybin aloud, in a peculiar full voice. "Believe these
papers! I shall now, perhaps, get death on account of them. The
authorities beat me, they tortured me, they wanted to find out from
where I got them, and they're going to beat me more. For in these
writings the truth is laid down. An honest world and the truth ought
to be dearer to us than bread. That's what I say."

"Why is he doing this?" softly exclaimed one of the peasants near the
steps. He of the blue eyes answered:

"Now it's all the same. He won't escape death, anyhow. And a man
can't die twice."

The sergeant suddenly appeared on the steps of the town hall, roaring
in a drunken voice:

"What is this crowd? Who's the fellow speaking?"

Suddenly precipitating himself down the steps, he seized Rybin by the
hair, and pulled his head backward and forward. "Is it you speaking,
you damned scoundrel? Is it you?"

The crowd, giving way, still maintained silence. The mother, in
impotent grief, bowed her head; one of the peasants sighed. Rybin
spoke again:

"There! Look, good people!"

"Silence!" and the sergeant struck his face.

Rybin reeled.

"They bind a man's hands and then torment him, and do with him whatever
they please."

"Policemen, take him! Disperse, people!" The sergeant, jumping and
swinging in front of Rybin, struck him in his face, breast, and stomach.

"Don't beat him!" some one shouted dully.

"Why do you beat him?" another voice up