Trirodov was for some reason overjoyed at these words, partly because Elisaveta heard them and blushed so furiously that even the dim moonlight could not hide her blushes. A few detectives had also managed to find their way here, and there was even one provocateur. These chattels alone knew that the police had information about the meeting and that the wood would shortly be encircled by the Cossacks. Conversations were kept up among small groups for some time before the meeting opened. The agitators discussed matters with labouring men who were not in the party. The more interesting people were introduced to the invited speaker. Stchemilov’s loud voice rang out: “Comrades, attention. I propose comrade Abram as chairman.” “Agreed, agreed,” came suppressed voices from every side. Comrade Abram took his place on a high stump of a hewn-down tree. The speeches began. Elisaveta was nervous until it came her turn to speak. She was troubled with pain and fear because she knew that Trirodov would hear her. Proud, brave watchwords and bold instructions were heard. The provocateur also made a speech. He urged them to an immediate armed revolt. Some one’s voice called out: “Comrades--this man’s a provocateur!” There was a commotion. The provocateur shouted something in his defence. He was promptly jostled out. Then Stchemilov spoke; he was followed by the invited orator. Elisaveta’s agitation grew. But when the chairman said, “Comrade Elisaveta, the word belongs to you,” she suddenly became calm and, having ascended the high stump that served as the platform, began to speak. Her deep, measured voice carried far. Some one seemed to echo it in the wood--it was like a fantastic, restless din. A being beloved by her and near to her sat there and listened; her beloved, near comrades also listened. Hundreds of attentive eyes followed her, and the dear friendly looks, converging like lances under a shield, held her very high in the pure atmosphere of happiness. The sweet moments of joy passed by like a short dream. She ended her speech and came down among the audience, where she was received with flattering comments and strong pressures of the hand--sometimes, it must be confessed, a little over-strong. “I say, comrade, you’ll break my hand. How strong you are!” And his face would also break into a joyous smile. The speeches ended. The songs began. The wood re-echoed with proud, brave words, with a song of freedom and revolt. Suddenly the song stopped short, a confused murmur ran through the crowd. Some one shouted: “The Cossacks!” Some one shouted: “Run, comrades!” Some one ran. Some one shouted: “Be calm, comrades!” The Cossacks had hid themselves in the wood a couple of versts from the meeting. Many of them had managed to take several drinks. As they sat around their bonfires they began to sing a gay, noisy, indecent song, but their officers enjoined silence.