The rain came down in torrents, and the streets were a desert. In the afternoon I walked to the Dvortsovy Square, where the War Department and the General Staff were housed in a great crescent-shaped building fronting the Winter Palace. The square had suddenly become an armed camp. Armored cars and Red Cross ambulances, motor-trucks for transporting soldiers, and all the paraphernalia that the Bolsheviki had similarly flaunted on the Nevsky the day before, was drawn up in front of the Staff office, awaiting signs of further disturbance. All day Thursday and Friday the troops came in from the front. Thursday morning a bicycle regiment arrived, cycled through the city and across the Field of Mars. That evening from the War Hotel I watched an endless procession of Cossacks file through St. Isaac’s Square. They came riding on gray horses, the descending sun flashing on the tips of their lances. Blankets and tents, kit-bags and _balalakis_ were strapped to their saddles. The regimental band headed the procession, and the regimental priest and four bullocks brought up the rear. Sandwiched in between the soldiers and the priest were the soup kitchens on wheels, and the wagons filled with hay for the horses. They came clattering across the cobbles, making such a din that it hushed the cheers of the bystanders to a whisper. At midnight I heard a band outside the window playing the “Marseillaise.” I hurried into the square, to find another procession of soldiers arriving from the front. When the band passed out of hearing, the soldiers tramped to a marching tune of their own making. Thursday morning the Bolsheviki were still in control of the Fortress of Peter and Paul, and were directing their operations from the palace of a famous ballet-dancer who had been a favorite of the Tsar. Friday morning the Neva was swarming with people. Most of the shops opened, and the street-cars were running on their usual uncertain schedule. The trouble seemed to be over, yet Petrograd’s nerves were not quite relaxed. At twelve that night I was lying in bed reading, when suddenly again came the unmistakable sputterings of the machine-guns and the crack of rifles. I slipped into a dressing-gown and out into the hall. It was rapidly filling with officers and their wives, all in a similar state of undress. The lights were quickly extinguished. Nobody could tell where the firing was, but it seemed to be directly below us. I leaned out of the window on the sixth floor and looked at the square. Nothing was visible in the strange gray light of that darkest hour of the white night. There were no shouts, no cries, no single sound but the rattle of the machine-gun and the bark of the rifles. The women stood about in frightened groups, talking in hushed tones. “It’s civil war,” somebody said. “The streets will run blood before this thing is over.” An officer arriving at that moment reassured them.