People stepped forward, each footfall audible.

A new song, determined and resolute, burst out: "You yielded up your lives for them." Fedya's voice wreathed and curled like a bright ribbon.
"A-ha-ha-ha!" some one exclaimed derisively.

"They've struck up a funeral song, the dirty dogs!" "Beat him!" came the angry response.
The mother clasped her hands to her breast, looked about and saw that the crowd, before so dense, was now standing irresolute, watching the comrades walk away from them with the banner, followed by about a dozen people, one of whom, however, at every forward move, jumped aside as if the path in the middle of the street were red hot and burned his soles.
"The tyranny will fall--" sounded the prophetic song from the lips of Fedya.
"And the people will rise!" the chorus of powerful voices seconded confidently and menacingly.
But the harmonious flow of the song was broken by the quiet words: "He is giving orders." "Charge bayonets!" came the piercing order from the front.
The bayonets curved in the air, and glittered sharply; then fell and stretched out to confront the banner.
"Ma-arch!" "They're coming!" said the lame man, and thrusting his hands into his pockets made a long step to one side.
The mother, without blinking, looked on.

The gray line of soldiers tossed to and fro, and spread out over the entire width of the street.
It moved on evenly, coolly, carrying in front of itself a fine-toothed comb of sparkling bayonets.

Then it came to a stand.