The next morning the soldiers gathered in the square, black mourning flags fluttering from the tops of their lances. There were thousands and thousands of them--a military spectacle such as Petrograd had not seen since the days of the Tsars. The cavalry lined up on both sides of the square, their horses standing at perfect attention. The infantry stacked their rifles and squatted on the cobblestones during the long mass. The priests, in mourning robes of black and silver, carried ecclesiastical banners; and the caskets were borne on ornate canopied hearses drawn by black horses. There were Red Cross nurses carrying huge wreaths of artificial flowers. Foreign diplomats and members of the Allied military missions came to pay their respects. And, just as the last coffin was carried from the church, a limousine drove up. Alexander Kerensky stepped out and fell into line, and a mighty cheer broke from the crowd. The funeral procession lasted most of the day. Scouts rode along the line of march, ordering all windows to be closed against the stray shots of provokators. There were no carriages, no automobiles. In Russia they follow their dead to their graves on foot, and the tragic strains of the Russian funeral music sob their way into your very soul. The casual observer in Petrograd would have said that revolutionary disturbances were a thing of the past; that order had come to stay. But the casual observer would have failed to understand the breadth and depth of the movements stirring beneath the surface. As I stood watching the funeral procession file past, an acquaintance, opposed to the new Russian order, joined me for a minute. “This is the end of Socialism,” he said triumphantly. On the contrary, it was only the beginning of the class struggle in the Revolution. CHAPTER VII OLD RIVERS AND NEW DOCTRINES Leon Trotzky, Bolshevist leader, was secure in jail. Nicolai Lenin was in hiding. Those who believed he was in the employ of the German government declared he had escaped to Berlin. Those who still held to the belief that you can kill a movement by putting its leaders behind bars, or driving them underground, proudly boasted that the Bolsheviki were crushed. One night several of us were having dinner in a little Italian restaurant. The argument of the evening--there was always an argument in Russia--was about the origin of the Bolshevist movement. One man declared that the thing was a German plot. There was a new member of the American colony at dinner that night. Williams was his name--Albert Rhys Williams. He was decidedly an American type, tall, with a pleasant, frank face and a delightfully inclusive smile. He had been in Belgium at the time of the German advance, and had written a book on his experiences in the claws of the German eagle. He had come to Russia some time before, but had been away from Petrograd, meeting the peasants and workers. He took no part in the discussions for some time. Finally he said: