bow, dancing round, up and down to the great delight of the crowd.
Our love-feast at last was broken in upon by the clanging signal-bell. One more round of handclasps and we climbed aboard the train as the orchestra caught up the refrain:
It is the final conflict,
Let each stand in his place;
The Internationale—
Shall be the human race.
There was no grace or outward splendor in this meeting. It was ugliness unrelieved—except for one thing: the presence of a tremendous vitality. It was a revelation of the drive of the Revolution. Even into this sub-cellar of civilization it had penetrated—into these regions of the damned it had come like a trumpet-blast, bringing down the walls of their charnel-house. Out of it they had rushed, not with bloodshot eyes, slavering mouths and daggers drawn, but crying for truth and justice, with songs of solidarity upon their lips, and on their banners the watchwords of a new world.
The Émigrés
Unmoved.
All this was lost upon the émigrés. Not one ray of wonder did they let penetrate the armor of their class-interest. Their former fears gave way to sneers:
"There is Bolshevism for you! It makes statesmen out of jail-birds. Great sight, isn't it? Con-
