defend themselves and shout. He also wanted to shout, but had momentarily lost all control over the muscles of his face. His mouth moved heavily and clumsily, as if his lips were made of wet clay, and he could not emit a sound. He knew that more than one arrest was before him now, and still his teeth went on chattering involuntarily.
The comrades marched in rows, forming a solid mass. They kept very close to each other so as to get a little warmer, and tried to march in step. The footsteps of the twenty men gave back a hollow sound in the empty morning streets. No one spoke. But in the hearts of all a feeling of mutual sympathy and kinship arose. Senzomoto, Watari, Sakanishi, “Don Quixote,” Sessito, Ishida, the novice Shibata and all the other members were conscious of this feeling. In moments of danger it never left them; it was the feeling of solidarity—the solidarity that unites the proletariat into one unbroken front.
These members of the union were no longer a loose conglomeration of individuals, but one tremendous united whole. They marched hand in hand, their dark eyes saw only one great end, to which they were all moving. This end was called—revolution.
III
“Get up!” shouted the policeman. He groped about in the dark for the electric switch. Kudo’s three children awoke and began to cry. The police could not find the switch and went on groping
