burned upon his breast. Still he refused to recant. He was led to the scaffold and a noose placed around his neck.
"I die a Bolshevik. Long live the Soviet," he cried as he was swung out into space.
There were others like him—men whose hearts had been touched by the teachings of Tolstoy and the long line of Russian humanitarians, men who saw the iniquity of the old order and the justice of the new.
But these were exceptions. As a class the Russian bourgeoisie looked at the Revolution with horror and hate. Their only thought was to kill it. Blinded with vengeance they cast aside all codes of honor, chivalry and patriotism. They cried for foreign bayonets to strike it down. Every weapon was sanctified—even assassination. The civilized veneer dropped away. The primitive fang and claw appeared. Men of parts and culture became savages.
