From the main street four mounted policemen flourishing their knouts came riding into the by-street directly at the crowd.

“Disperse!”

“What sort of talking is going on?”

“Who’s speaking?”

The people scowled, giving way to the horses unwillingly. Some climbed up on fences; raillery was heard here and there.

“They put pigs on horses; they grunt: ‘Here we are, leaders, too!’” resounded a sonorous, provoking voice.

The Little Russian was left alone in the middle of the street; two horses shaking their manes pressed at him. He stepped aside, and at the same time the mother grasped his hand, pulling him away grumbling:

“You promised to stick to Pasha; and here you are running up against the edge of a knife all by yourself.”

“I plead guilty,” said the Little Russian, smiling at Pavel. “Ugh! What a force of police there is in the world!”

“All right,” murmured the mother.

An alarming, crushing exhaustion came over her. It rose from within her and made her dizzy. There was a strange alternation of sadness and joy in her heart. She wished the afternoon whistle would sound.

They reached the square where the church stood. Around the church within the paling a thick crowd was sitting and standing. There were some five hundred gay youth and bustling women with children darting around the groups like butterflies. The crowd swung from side to side. The people raised their heads and looked into the distance in different directions, waiting impatiently.

“Mitenka!” softly vibrated a woman’s voice. “Have pity on yourself!”

“Stop!” rang out the response.

And the grave Sizov spoke calmly, persuasively:

“No, we mustn’t abandon our children. They have grown wiser than ourselves; they live more boldly. Who saved our cent for the marshes? They did. We must remember that. For doing it they were dragged to prison; but we derived the benefit. The benefit was for all.”

The whistle blew, drowning the talk of the crowd. The people started. Those sitting rose to their feet. For a moment the silence of death prevailed; all became watchful, and many faces grew pale.

“Comrades!” resounded Pavel’s voice, ringing and firm.

A dry, hot haze burned the mother’s eyes, and with a single movement of her body, suddenly strengthened, she stood behind her son. All turned toward Pavel, and drew up to him, like iron filings attracted by a magnet.

“Brothers! The hour has come to give up this life of ours, this life of greed, hatred, and darkness, this life of violence and falsehood, this life where there is no place for us, where we are no human beings.”

He stopped, and everybody maintained silence, moving still closer to him. The mother stared at her son. She saw only his eyes, his proud, brave, burning eyes.

“Comrades! We have decided to declare openly who we are; we raise our banner to-day, the banner of reason, of truth, of liberty! And now I raise it!”

A flag pole, white and slender, flashed in the air, bent down, cleaving the crowd. For a moment it was lost from sight; then over the uplifted faces the broad canvas of the working people’s flag spread its wings like a red bird.

Pavel raised his hand — the pole swung, and a dozen hands caught the smooth white rod. Among them was the mother’s hand.

“Long live the working people!” he shouted. Hundreds of voices responded to his sonorous call. “Long live the Social Democratic Workingmen’s Party, our party, comrades, our spiritual mother.”

The crowd seethed and hummed. Those who understood the meaning of the flag squeezed their way up to it. Mazin, Samoylov, and the Gusevs stood close at Pavel’s side. Nikolay with bent head pushed his way through the crowd. Some other people unknown to the mother, young and with burning eyes, jostled her.

“Long live the working people of all countries!” shouted Pavel.

And ever increasing in force and joy, a thousand-mouthed echo responded in a soul-stirring acclaim.

The mother clasped Pavel’s hand, and somebody else’s, too. She was breathless with tears, yet refrained from shedding them. Her legs trembled, and with quivering lips she cried:

“Oh, my dear boys, that’s true. There you are now ——”

A broad smile spread over Nikolay’s pockmarked face; he stared at the flag and, stretching his hand toward it, roared out something; then caught the mother around the neck with the same hand, kissed her, and laughed.

“Comrades!” sang out the Little Russian, subduing the noise of the crowd with his mellow voice. “Comrades! We have now started a holy procession in the name of the new God, the God of Truth and Light, the God of Reason and Goodness. We march in this holy procession, comrades, over a long and hard road. Our goal is far, far away, and the crown of thorns is near! Those who don’t believe in the might of truth, who have not the courage to stand up for it even unto death, who do not believe in themselves and are afraid of suffering — such of you, step aside! We call upon those only who believe in our triumph. Those who cannot see our goal, let them not walk with us; only misery is in store for them! Fall into line, comrades! Long live the first of May, the holiday of freemen!”

The crowd drew closer. Pavel waved the flag. It spread out in the air and sailed forward, sunlit, smiling, red, and glowing.

“Let us renounce the old world!” resounded Fedya Mazin’s ringing voice; and scores of voices took up the cry. It floated as on a mighty wave.

“Let us shake its dust from our feet.”

The mother marched behind Mazin with a smile on her dry lips, and looked over his head at her son and the flag. Everywhere, around her, was the sparkle of fresh young cheerful faces, the glimmer of many-colored eyes; and at the head of all — her son and Andrey. She heard their voices, Andrey’s, soft and humid, mingled in friendly accord with the heavy bass of her son:

“Rise up, awake, you workingmen!
On, on, to war, you hungry hosts!”

Men ran toward the red flag, raising a clamor; then joining the others, they marched along, their shouts lost in the broad sounds of ............