And in the ranks of these men presenting at the word of command are all those who have been conspiring against him. In the sabretache of the officers is to be found the _Catechism of the Free Man_. But the single word "Forward!" suffices to change the whole temper of these men; the conspiring regiments will charge down on the foe with shouts of "Long live the Czar!" When he shows them the battle-field they forget all their complaints and grievances--forget that they are seeking to kill him--and rush into the fight to give up their lives for him. So it is with the Russian people. Their striving after freedom is silenced when there is hope of war. The private, freely shedding his blood on foreign soil, believes that therewith he will fertilize his native meadows. The priests have indoctrinated him with the belief that he who falls in a strange land to the enemy's bayonet will live again in his own country, where he will find parents, wife, and children once more; and, if he was a serf before, will rise again a free man. After the review of the troops the Czar himself takes the command, and a series of brilliant manœuvres begins, thought out by himself. According to the then science of war, they were intended to be a masterpiece of the system of attack in close order. His aides-de-camp are dashing from battalion to battalion with orders, their spirited horses flying off in all directions. The orders are given by the Czar himself, who watches their fulfilment through a field-glass. Suddenly an adjutant dashes up to him. "Sire!" "What is it? Make short work of it!" The enemy's cannon are already thundering upon the attacking column. "Sire," says the officer, "Duchess Sophie Narishkin has just delivered up her noble soul to Eternity." The Czar instinctively put his hand to his heart. It was there that he was struck! And yet the cannon were only firing blank ammunition. The sword he was wielding sank in one hand--the Czar covered his face with the other. "_It is the punishment for my faults!_" he uttered, in a faltering voice. What a change had come over the brilliant hero--the semi-god! In his place sat a bowed figure; a man bowed down to the earth by fate. However deafening the hurrahs--however much the earth may vibrate under the tramp of warlike horses and horsemen--their leader's soul is fettered by the words "Sophie is dead." Miloradovics, the general in command, sent to ask instructions from the Imperial Commander-in-Chief for the next movement. "Call them back!" was the answer. "Send the troops back to barracks. The review is over." And, turning his horse, the Czar rode back to his tent with bowed head. They who saw him return hardly recognized his white face. The generals of division had great work to disentangle their troops and get them into position again. A murmuring arose among the men, as though a battle had been lost.