But the crowd fell asunder; one after the other the people dropped off to the right or to the left, going toward their homes, or leaning against the fences.

Now the crowd had the shape of a wedge, and its point was Pavel, over whose head the banner of the laboring people was burning red.
At the end of the street, closing the exit to the square, the mother saw a low, gray wall of men, one just like the other, without faces.

On the shoulder of each a bayonet was smiling its thin, chill smile; and from this entire immobile wall a cold gust blew down on the workmen, striking the breast of the mother and penetrating her heart.
She forced her way into the crowd among people familiar to her, and, as it were, leaned on them.
She pressed closely against a tall, lame man with a clean-shaven face.
In order to look at her, he had to turn his head stiffly.
"What do you want?
Who are you ?" he asked her.
"The mother of Pavel Vlasov," she answered, her knees trembling beneath her, her lower lip involuntarily dropping.
"Ha-ha!" said the lame man.

"Very well!" "Comrades!" Pavel cried.

"Onward all your lives.