Peasant women started filling the sidewalks.
A horseman of the Hetman's State Guard rode ahead like an outrider.
His large horse laid back its ears, glared wildly, walking sideways.
The rider's expression was perplexed.
Occasionally he would give a shout and crack his whip for order, but no one listened to his outbursts.
In the front ranks of the crowd could be seen the golden copes of bearded priests and a religious banner flapped above their heads.
Little boys ran up from all sides.
'Voice of Liberty!' shouted a newsboy and dashed towards the crowd.
A group of cooks in white, flat-topped chef's caps ran out of the nether regions of the Metropole Restaurant.
The crowd scattered over the snow like ink over paper.
Several long yellow boxes were bobbing along above the crowd.
As the first one drew level with Alexei Turbin he was able to make out the rough charcoal inscription on its side:
Ensign Yutsevich.
On the next one he read:
Ensign Ivanov.
And on the third:
Ensign Orlov.
Suddenly a squeal arose from the crowd.
A gray-haired woman, her hat pushed on to the back of her head, stumbled and dropping parcels to the ground, rushed forward from the sidewalk into the crowd.
'What's happening?
Vanya!' she yelled.
Turning pale, a man dodged away to one side.
A peasant woman screamed, then another.
'Jesus Christ Almighty!' muttered a voice behind Turbin.
Somebody nudged him in the back and breathed down his neck.
'Lord . . . the things that happen these days.
Have they started killing people?
What is all this?'
'I know no more than you do.'
'What?
What?
What?
What's happened?
Who are they burying?'
'Vanya!' screamed the voice in the crowd.
'Some officers who were murdered at Popelyukha', growled a voice urgently, panting with the desire to be first to tell the news. 'They advanced to Popelyukha, camped out there and in the night they were surrounded by peasants and men from Petlyura's army who murdered every last one of them.
Every last one . . .
They gouged out their eyes, carved their badges of rank into the skin of their shoulders with knives.
Completely disfigured them.'
'Was that what happened?
God . . .'
Ensign Korovin.
Ensign Herdt -more yellow coffins bobbed past.
'Just think . . . what have we come to . . .'
'Internecine war.'
'What d'you mean . . .'
'Apparently they had all fallen asleep when . . .'
'Serve 'em right . . .' cried a sudden, black little voice in the crowd behind Alexei Turbin and he saw red.
There was a melee of faces and hats.
Turbin stretched out his arms like two claws, thrust them between the necks of two bystanders and grabbed the black overcoat sleeve that belonged to the voice.