"And so it seems thou, too, art one of Antichrist's army?" said the old man to Nehlúdof.
"What, hast thou come to see how Antichrist tortures men? Here, see. He has locked them up in a cage, a whole army of them. Men should eat bread in the sweat of their brow. But He has locked them up with no work to do, and feeds them like swine, so that they should turn into beasts."
"What is he saying?" asked the Englishman.
Nehlúdof told him the old man was blaming the inspector for keeping men imprisoned.
"Ask him how he thinks one should treat those who do not keep the laws," said the Englishman.
The old man laughed strangely, showing his regular teeth.
"The laws?" he repeated with contempt. "First Antichrist robbed everybody, took all the earth, and all rights away from them--took them all for himself--killed all those who were against him--and then He wrote laws forbidding to rob and to kill. He should have written those laws sooner."
Nehlúdof translated. The Englishman smiled.
"Well, anyhow, ask him how one should treat thieves and murderers now?"
"Tell him he should take the seal of Antichrist off from himself," the old man said, frowning severely; "then he will know neither thieves nor murderers. Tell him so."
"He is crazy," said the Englishman, when Nehlúdof had translated the old man's words; and shrugging his shoulders he left the cell.
"Do thine own task and leave others alone. Every one for himself. God knows whom to execute, whom to pardon, but we do not know," said the old man. "Be your own chief, then chiefs will not be wanted. Go, go," he added, frowning angrily, and looking with glittering eyes at Nehlúdof, who lingered in the ward. "Hast thou not gazed enough on how the servants of Antichrist feed lice on men? Go! Go!"
It was Sunday-- Eleven in the morning; people were at church-- Prayers were in the making; God was near at hand-- Down the cramped and narrow streets of quiet Lawrence Came the tramp of workers marching in their hundreds; Marching in the morning, marching to the grave-yard, Where, no longer fiery, underneath the grasses, Callous and uncaring, lay their friend and sister. In their hands they carried wreaths and drooping flowers, Overhead their banners dipped and soared like eagles-- Aye, but eagles bleeding, stained with their own heart's blood-- Red, but not for glory--red, with wounds and travail, Red, the buoyant symbol of the blood of all the world. So they bore their banners, singing toward the grave-yard, So they marched and chanted, mingling tears and tributes, So, with flowers, the dying went to deck the dead.