“We would like to issue an appeal warning the people against the ruinous policy of the Bolsheviki,” he said; “but, unfortunately, the liberty of the press being suppressed, it is impossible.” While only a handful of people were killed in the Bolshevik Revolution in Petrograd, Moscow’s death toll is estimated at from seven hundred and fifty persons to twice that number. Probably the former figure is more nearly correct. Close beside the Kremlin wall, in the holiest of holy places, the workmen and soldiers of Moscow dug the great trench that was to receive the bodies of their fallen comrades. All day they dug, and when night came they continued their work by the light of torches. The ghostly linden trees have stood watch over many strange scenes there on the edge of the Red Square, but none stranger than this crowd of silent men, speechlessly turning the earth through the long, chill, dark hours. By daybreak they had finished. It was the day of the proletariat. All others stayed indoors. The streets, but for the mourners of the proletarian dead, were deserted. At eight o’clock in the morning the procession started, and all day long the people filed past--a vast, endless throng of them, men, women, and little children. There were no priests, no prayers. Strong young soldiers in mud-colored coats carried the red coffins on their shoulders, and above the heads of the crowd the crimson banners flowed like a river of blood. A sobbing, singing mass of human beings, tragic and triumphant, filled the vast square. Cavalry troops rode by at attention, and girls with _platoks_ on their heads carried great oval bandboxed wreaths of artificial flowers. Sometimes a military band went by, playing a funeral march, and sometimes the voices of the marchers lifted in the deep, rhythmical strains of the “Hymn of Eternal Memory.” Men and women, old and young, wept as they saw the coffins lowered into that yawning trench. If Mother Moscow wept that night, her tears fell quietly. She was in the presence of something big, something terrible, something magnificent--something unlike anything her old eyes had ever seen before. There was another day, another funeral, another crowd of broken-hearted men and women. Their crumbs of comfort were more meager, for theirs was the bitterness of defeat; but they also hugged the faith that the stalwart boys who lay stretched in their coffins had died defending an ideal. Worlds of space lay between those two groups of mourners--they had no single thing in common but their grief. Their dead lay in the darkened recesses of great churches, and priests in funeral robes of black and silver said many masses for the repose of their souls. There were no red coffins, no crimson banners, no singing multitudes--only prayers and silent tears.