"Mother!" Sergey rushed over to her.

What took place then it is unnecessary and impossible to describe. . .
.

The last words of the colonel were:

"I give you my blessing for your death, Seryozha. Die bravely, like an
officer."

And they went away. Somehow they went away. They had been there, they
had stood, they had spoken-and suddenly they had gone. Here sat his
mother, there stood his father-and suddenly somehow they had gone
away. Returning to the cell, Sergey lay down on the cot, his face
turned toward the wall, in order to hide it from the soldiers, and he
wept for a long time. Then, exhausted by his tears, he slept soundly.

To Vasily Kashirin only his mother came. His father, who was a wealthy
tradesman, did not want to come. Vasily met the old woman, as he was
pacing up and down the room, trembling with cold, although it was
warm, even hot. And the conversation was brief, painful.

"It wasn't worth coming, mother. You'll only torture yourself and me."

"Why did you do it, Vasya? Why did you do it? Oh, Lord!" The old woman
burst out weeping, wiping her face with the ends of her black, woolen
kerchief. And with the habit which he and his brothers had always had
of crying at their mother, who did not understand anything, he
stopped, and, shuddering as with cold, spoke angrily: