Naumoff, the prosecutor, arose. He was a boy too, slightly younger than the other, and a factory worker also. His dark brown hair was closely cropped, and he wore a brown sateen shirt matching a pair of snapping brown eyes. As he began his attack, a murmur of dissent ran through the crowd, and an old man in a gray peasant’s blouse rose from his chair. His face and the top of his bald head flaming scarlet, his long white beard shaking, both his hands waving in the air, he shouted: “I can’t stand it--I can’t stand it!” He was an old journalist from a provincial paper to whom the Countess had long been an idol. Two gray-haired women caught his arms and led him from the court-room, protesting violently as he went. Naumoff continued: “We should not look at it from the sentimental point of view,” he said. “I admit that citizeness Panina is a noble woman, but the time has come to struggle for the things that are the rights of the people. The people must learn to read, because they have the right to know how to read, not through the kindness of any one person.” So I had come from ordered America, not to see the trial of the sweet-faced woman against the wall. It was the trial of an idea--the sure basis of human right against dependence on the benevolent whim of the individual. It was the order of the radical against the order of the liberal. Charity and justice, privilege and right, were having their day in court. Two other speakers from the crowd followed the factory boys. Then the Countess Panina was asked to make a statement. Her breast rose and fell. Finally she spoke, her words coming faintly at first. “I had taken the post, and I could not relinquish it except on order of the Master,” she said. “The Constituent Assembly is the only power that I shall recognize. The money is in an institution of credit, and I will turn it over when the Master speaks.” She choked, stood silent a moment, and sat down. The court went out to deliberate. In a moment the room was in an uproar. Every one was talking at once. Half an hour later, the judges filed back to their seats, looking as uncomfortable as when they had filed out. A Russian-American, a man named Krameroff, who had been the head of the Russian branch of the Socialist party in San Francisco, arose to protest. The president of the court motioned to him to be seated. He paid no attention. Jukoff ordered two soldier guards to place him under arrest. Krameroff still protested, then locked arms with the soldiers and walked smilingly out between them. A sudden hush fell upon the court-room. The friends of Panina held their breath in expectation of the verdict. Jukoff did not keep them long waiting. He arose and began reading: