small city of Siberia! One can see only because the snow
is white. No moon, no electricity.... Where is my new Peugeot now? Who
is driving it now? Where is Anton? Whose chauffer is he now, and is
he still a chauffer, or has the wheel of fortune turned and made him
Commissary of Arts, or Commissary of Public Health? Or, true to his
master, was he hanged defending my automobile? Kismet!...

There were only two blocks to the L.--but the snow was so deep and it
was so windy and cold, it seemed to me a good mile, till I reached the
house.

It was dark as usual. As usual it seemed dead. But, when I was quite
close to it, I heard some movement inside and I detected something in
the yard. This something materialized very soon into a couple of evil
faces and rifles with fixed bayonets. Inside of the house there were
muffled voices. Near the rear gate (I could see it due to the sloping
of the lot) three horses and a snow sledge were standing. A few
voices were raised in dispute in the barn, swearing a blue streak.
"Arrest"--it was clear. When I was trying to think of something to
help,--and what could I think of?--the double pane of the bedroom
window was suddenly broken by something heavy thrown from the inside
and a desperate piercing voice of Pasha--I immediately knew it was the
poor girl--shouted with all of the strength of her lungs: "Help, help!
In Christ's name, help...." The cry was broken off in the middle,
muffled by the palm of a hand, and became a mutter of despair and
horror: "M-p-p, maa...." Somebody stuffed a white pillow in the hole.
Again all became quiet.

Then the front door suddenly opened and a man jumped out into
the street; another,--a short fellow clad in a wild Siberian
overcoat,--appeared on the stairs, aimed a Mauser and fired at the
man's back. I scarcely had time to sit down behind the fence.

Ff ... ap ... Ff ... ap ...--sounded two dry, sharp shots. The first
man took two more steps--and rolled in the snow, feebly groaning from
pain. A black trickle of blood swiftly ran along the snow near my
knees. The Siberian overcoat looked at his victim and with "you,
damned carrion," slammed the door. Again all was dark and silent.

The man was indeed dead when I reached him. He had a package of
something wrapped in paper--so I took it,--I thought it might be
something belonging to Ls.

All that was pretty bad, and I did not know how to get away,--my
position being really a poor one in a strategic sens