“My orderly here was also born in Russia,” I said. “But he is a naturalized American citizen, and has been six years in the regular army. You have come back to help your country, but your country does not appear to appreciate your services. You might have returned in an American uniform, but for nine years you lived in New York and did not care to become an American citizen. Now you claim American protection. Why are you going to be shot?” “I don’t know. I never was told. Please go and ask to see my papers. Every minute is valuable! Save my life! I am a good American!” The other prisoners now swarmed about us. The commandant pushed through them and eyed me angrily. I told my orderly to inform him that I had come in response to his summons, and handed over his note. To my amazement he stared at the note and declared that he had neither written it nor sent it. And he informed me that the very smart young Cossack soldier, who had clicked his heels so ceremoniously, was a suspected Bolshevist against whom no definite evidence had been found. And this “soldier” had himself been released from the prison only that morning! (Later in the day he was re-arrested for bringing the forged message to me.) I explained to the commandant that under the circumstances I had no intention of interfering, but I desired that the execution might be delayed till I could talk with the local chief of staff. He assented. I drove hurriedly to the office of the chief of staff of the Cossack commander, and asked about the prisoner. The passport of the condemned man was put before me. He had obtained the passport as a Russian subject. Also, he had pretended upon arrival to be an envoy sent by radicals in the United States to the Bolshevists. And I was shown clippings from Russian papers, which related how the “New Yorker” had in street speeches after his arrival in Siberia denounced the government of the United States as “capitalistic.” He had been arrested while trying to pass through a certain city with Bolshevist dispatches. “I wish the execution might be delayed,” I said, “until I can talk with this man again. He might give me some information of value.” The chief of staff nodded his head, and as I went out, reached for the telephone. I drove back to the prison. The commandant, now smiling and suave, led me, when I asked to see the prisoner, to a window overlooking the prison yard. There he pointed to a figure lying in the reddened snow. It was the “New Yorker.” * * * * * In a party of condemned prisoners taken out for execution, there was a woman from the East Side of New York. She brought up the rear of the little column. She was a tall, fine-looking Jewess, and bore herself proudly, looking with scorn at the firing-squad. When the death-grove was reached there was some delay. She observed Americans among the on-lookers, and beckoned them over to her.