eral Rezukhin. I bowed to him and received his silent acknowledgment. After that I swung my glance back to the Baron, who sat with bowed head and closed eyes, from time to time rubbing his brow and mumbling to himself.
Suddenly he stood up and sharply said, looking past and over me:
"Go out! There is no need of more. …"
I swung round and saw Captain Veseloffsky with his white, cold face. I had not heard him enter. He did a formal "about face" and passed out of the door.
"'Death from the white man' has stood behind me," I thought; "but has it quite left me?"
The Baron stood thinking for some time and then began to speak in jumbled, unfinished phrases.
"I ask your pardon. … You must understand there are so many traitors! Honest men have disappeared. I cannot trust anybody. All names are false and assumed; documents are counterfeited. Eyes and words deceive. … All is demoralized, insulted by Bolshevism. I just ordered Colonel Philipoff cut down, he who called himself the representative of the Russian White Organization. In the lining of his garments were found two secret Bolshevik codes. … When my officer flourished his sword over him, he exclaimed: 'Why do you kill me, Tavarische?' I cannot trust anybody. …"
He was silent and I also held my peace.
"I beg your pardon!" he began anew. "I offended you; but I am not simply a man, I am a leader of great forces and have in my head so much care, sorrow and woe!"
In his voice I felt there was mingled despair and sin-
