It was a red morning when two of our _fliers_ blew down with the word that our brothers were closing in--that it looked like extermination for our thirty thousand, unless we strode out and crippled them with the first shock. Ten miles to the west the Bundalino Marshes began. We had the secret paths, but it was a wretched fugitive outlook to seek shelter there. As I looked at it, it would never occur to leaders who had brought Russia to the moment of parturition, to break up for a miserable safety in the swamps of Bundalino. I recall the distant firing of that red morning. My eardrums had not healed from recent months more or less in touch with the artillery. I remember brushing the edge of the lines, as I crossed from Sedgwick's headquarters back to the hut I shared with Varsieff and a servant or two. The peasants were listening queerly and quietly to the far firing. I passed through the sprawl of pup-shelters, and certain ideas occurred to me: first, that the arrangement of camp was abominable, a pitiful lack of technique shown in this bit of military handling; second, the slow cold conviction that we, as revolutionists, must have all the virtues of the old-line troops to begin with, and to build our real greatness on top of that; finally I drew from the queer attitudes of the men toward me, an intuitional flash that to them the distant firing meant a signal that they were about to fight their way home. Varsieff was sitting dejected upon a camp-chest when I rejoined him. "Sedgwick is ready when you are," I said. "He suggests that the men be not kept waiting too long." Varsieff looked up. His face was livid. His soul had no chance that morning. I thought of the old story of Arjuna standing between the battle-lines, reluctant to join action against his own kindred. "It's the same here that it was in Petrograd," I announced finally. "The dream holds----" He shook his head.... "They are just boys--white-haired boys. They want to go home----" That instant I seemed to see the world laughing at this great man; I saw the end of Varsieff politically.... Superb genius broken down by an intrinsic weakness--as a man who, trying to lead the world, falls for the lure of an actress maid.... I saw all his work of early years--straight, clean, unerring, selfless labour of a man to a Cause--the inspired labour of the past two years when he gave the whole fruit of his quickened heart to the new Russia--the magic of a man loved by a woman great enough to be his divine sculptor and priestess.... It was the thought of Paula Mantone that helped me that instant. Sedgwick was on the path outside. I hurried out and whispered: "Don't come now. Come back in ten minutes----" The General paused to let me hear the firing. "But the troops----" he said. "Give me ten minutes more with Varsieff----" "The attack may be called----" "I know, but I need that time." The old soldier turned back, hating me.... * * * * *