wall-shelf gave a yellow effect against which the
shadows stirred cloudily.

Even the whitewashed walls were the gray yellow of putty in that feeble
light, and Boone turned his eyes toward the brighter spot of the door,
giving upon another room, where operators sat at switchboards and where
were mingled the buzz of voices, the tramp of booted feet, the clink of
spurs and accoutrements, into a tempered babel as restlessly constant as
surf on rocks.

That door was a kaleidoscopic patch of changing colour, and Boone
watched it with a sense of confused unreality until a second opened,
letting in a draught under which the candles wavered and grew more dim,
and a spare figure entered through it, clad in a field uniform which had
seen heavy wear, and holding between the tapering fingers of the left
hand a freshly lighted cigarette.

Boone had a realization in that first moment of a shadowy shape in a
semi-obscurity, yet out of the dimness, as though they were brightly
painted on a dark canvas, stood clear--or so it seemed to him--the
features of the man and the cross of St. George on his breast.

Alexieff Brussilov closed the door behind him and inclined his head in
something less casual than a nod and less formal than a bow, and the
flames of the candles rose and steadied as if standing at attention. In
all of Boone's subsequent remembrance of that meeting, it was difficult
for him to unravel the fact from the play of an imagination, more fitful
just then than the candle glimmer, or to dissociate from the impressions
of that moment all that he had known before or learned afterwards of
this man, whose feats of arms he had heard so widely acclaimed.

Even when the General's voice had broken the silence and they had
exchanged commonplaces, a surge of influences quite apart from his words
seemed to emanate from the erect figure and the stern eyes, as electric
waves flow out from an induction coil.

Boone questioned himself sternly afterwards and could never answer his
own questioning as to whether he actually felt at that time or only
realized in retrospect the strong impression of doom and heartbreak in
Brussilov's eyes. His story was not yet ended, but he must have known
its end. He was yet to be commander-in-chief for two months of futile
struggle with crumbling armies, succeeding Alexieff, and being himself
supplanted by Korniloff. He was even to essay one more offensive--yet
his inner vision must already recognize the