The Revolution at Petrograd
was concluding his speech, when there was a movement among these thousands of men, and attention was suddenly fixed on a figure that was entering. The audience rose as a man, and applause rang out as before the formerly imperial tribune a man appeared, dressed in the khaki uniform of a simple soldier: it was Kerensky.
The man who three months hence was to say to the Congress of Moscow, "You owe obedience to a supreme power and to me, who am at its head," is a young man about thirty-four years of age, of a pale, delicate appearance. He is said to be seriously ill, and in forcing himself to perform so great a task to be giving his life to the Revolution. That is perhaps one of the secrets of the influence which he wields over the Revolution. He could not be called eloquent; he has not the fire of a Jaurès nor the power of subtle argument of a Victor Adler. His voice is rough, and hi delivery is without art. But he has in this delivery that mysterious magnetism which draws crowds and inspires martyrs.
We met Kerensky again soon afterwards in the Ministry of War, where he had just
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