hese lorries soldiers
were heaped. I can use no other word because, indeed, they seemed to be
all piled upon one another, some kneeling forward, some standing, some
sitting, and all with their rifles pointing outwards until the lorries
looked like hedgehogs. Many of the rifles had pieces of red cloth
attached to them, and one lorry displayed proudly a huge red flag that
waved high in air with a sort of flaunting arrogance of its own. On
either side of the lorries, filling the street, was the strangest mob of
men, women, and children. There seemed to be little sign of order or
discipline amongst them as they were all shouting different cries: "Down
the Fontanka!" "No, the Duma!" "To the Nevski!" "No, no, _Tovaristchi_
(comrades), to the Nicholas Station!"

Such a rabble was it that I remember that my first thought was of
pitying indulgence. So this was the grand outcome of Boris Grogoff's
eloquence, and the Rat's plots for plunder!--a fitting climax to such
vain dreams. I saw the Cossack, that ebony figure of Sunday night. Ten
such men, and this rabble was dispersed for ever! I felt inclined to
lean over and whisper to them, "Quick! quick! Go home!... They'll be
here in a moment and catch you!"

And yet, after all, there seemed to be some show of discipline. I
noticed that, as the crowd moved forward, men dropped out and remained
picketing the doorways of the street. Women seemed to be playing a large
part in the affair, peasants with shawls over their heads, many of them
leading by the hand small children.

Burrows treated it all as a huge joke. "By Jove," he cried, speaking
across to me, "Durward, it's like that play Martin Harvey used to
do--what was it?--about the French Revolution, you know."

"'The Only Way,'" said Peroxide, in a prim strangled voice.

"That's it--'The Only Way'--with their red flags and all. Don't they
look ruffians, some of them?"

There was a great discussion going on under our windows. All the lorries
had drawn up together, and the screaming, chattering, and shouting was
like the noise of a parrots' aviary. The cold blue light had climbed now
into the sky, which was thick with stars; the snow on the myriad roofs
stretched like a filmy cloud as far as the eye could see. The moving,
shouting crowd grew with every moment mistier.

"Oh, dear! Mr. Burrows," said the little typist, who was not Peroxide.
"Do you think I shall ever be able to get home? We're on the other side
of the river, you