“Take these men to the Commandant. I will send my orders later.” On the way to the Baron’s yurta we were silent. He was excited and breathed heavily, lighting cigarette after cigarette and throwing them aside after but a single puff or two. “Take supper with me,” he proposed. He also invited his Chief of Staff, a very retiring, oppressed but splendidly educated man. The servants spread a Chinese hot course for us followed by cold meat and fruit compote from California with the inevitable tea. We ate with chopsticks. The Baron was greatly distraught. Very cautiously I began speaking of the offending officers and tried to justify their actions by the extremely trying circumstances under which they were living. “They are rotten through and through, demoralized, sunk into the depths,” murmured the General. The Chief of Staff helped me out and at last the Baron directed him to telephone the Commandant to release these gentlemen. The following day I spent with my friends, walking a great deal about the streets and watching their busy life. The great energy of the Baron demanded constant nervous activity from himself and every one round him. He was everywhere, seeing everything but never, interfering with the work of his subordinate administrators. Every one was at work. In the evening I was invited by the Chief of Staff to his quarters, where I met many intelligent officers. I related again the story of my trip and we were all chatting along animatedly when suddenly Colonel Sepailoff entered, singing to himself. All the others at once became silent and one by one under various pretexts they slipped out. He handed our host some papers and, turning to us, said: “I shall send you for supper a splendid fish pie and some hot tomato soup.” As he left, my host clasped his head in desperation and said: “With such scum of the earth are we now forced after this revolution to work!” A few minutes later a soldier from Sepailoff brought us a tureen full of soup and the fish pie. As the soldier bent over the table to set the dishes down, the Chief motioned me with his eyes and slipped to me the words: “Notice his face.” When the man went out, my host sat attentively listening until the sounds of the man’s steps ceased. “He is Sepailoff’s executioner who hangs and strangles the unfortunate condemned ones.” Then, to my amazement, he began to pour out the soup on the ground beside the brazier and, going out of the yurta, threw the pie over the fence. “It is Sepailoff’s feast and, though it may be very tasty, it may also be poison. In Sepailoff’s house it is dangerous to eat or drink anything.” Distinctly oppressed by these doings, I returned to my house. My host was not yet asleep and met me with a frightened look. My friends were also there. “God be thanked!” they all exclaimed. “Has nothing happened to you?” “What is the matter?” I asked.