t power."

"From where do they get it?" exclaimed the mother, thoroughly aroused.
"From us, from the people--they get everything from us."

"Ye-es," drawled the peasant. "It's a wheel." He bent his head toward
the door, listening attentively. "They're coming," he said softly.

"Who?"

"Our people, I suppose."

His wife entered. A freckled peasant, stooping, strode into the hut
after her. He threw his cap into a corner, and quickly went up to
their host.

"Well?"

The host nodded in confirmation.

"Stepan," said the wife, standing at the oven, "maybe our guest wants
to eat something."

"No, thank you, my dear."

The freckled peasant moved toward the mother and said quietly, in a
broken voice:

"Now, then, permit me to introduce myself to you. My name is Pyotr
Yegorov Ryabinin, nicknamed Shilo--the Awl. I understand something
about your affairs. I can read and write. I'm no fool, so to speak."
He grasped the hand the mother extended to him, and wringing it, turned
to the master of the house.

"There, Stepan, see, Varvara Nikolayevna is a good lady, true. But in
regard to all this, she says it is nonsense, nothing but dreams. Boys
and different students, she says, muddle the people's mind with
absurdities. However, you saw just now a sober, steady man, as he
ought to be, a peasant, arrested. Now, here is she, an elderly woman,
and as to be seen, not of blue blood. Don't be offended--what's your
station in life?"

He spoke quickly and distinctly, without taking breath. His little
beard shook nervously, and his dark eyes, which he screwed up, rapidly
scanned the mother's face and figure. Ragged, crumpled, his hair
disheveled, he seemed just to have come from a fight, in which he had
vanquished his opponent, and still to be flushed with the joy of
victory. He pleased the mother with his sprightliness and his simple
talk, which at once went straight to the point. She gave him a kind
look as she answered his question. He once more shook her hand
vigorously, and laughed softly.

"You see, Stepan, it's a clean business, an excellent business. I told
you so. This is the way it is: the people, so to speak, are beginning
to take things into their own hands. And as to the lady--she won't
tell you the truth; it's harmful to her. I respect her, I must say;
she's a good person, and wishes us well--well, a little bit, and
provided it won't harm her any. But the people want to go straight,
and