and then "The Red Flag," the favourite song of Socialists in Great Britain.
It shrouded oft our martyred dead.
And ere the lips grew stiff and cold,
Their heart's blood dyed its every fold.
Within its shade we'll live or die;
Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer,
We'll keep the Red Flag flying here.
At last we were about to enter the country where the Red Flag had become the national emblem, and was flying over every public building in the cities of Russia. The thought thrilled like new wine.
Half-way to Petrograd deputations from Trade Unions and Soviets came into the train and made complimentary speeches in a half-bashful manner, to which suitable responses were made. What a pleasant modest set of fellows they were, with big, blue innocent eyes and reluctant unobtrusive manner. We liked them immensely. We liked the plain people of Russia wherever we met them. At Petrograd itself a large company met us although it was three o'clock in the morning, and we were told that gigantic crowds had loitered about the station all the day in expectation of our coming and in the hope of getting a glimpse at the English strangers. We were at once motored to
