They were dreaming big dreams in Russia that night; scheming big schemes; and they were not unaware that the dreams and schemes would be used in the future by the rest of the world, perhaps as patterns by which to model, perhaps only as horrible examples and tragic warnings. It was an hour in which one needed all of one’s faith to believe that the human march is forward, no matter how many members of the family are lost on the way. At daybreak a company of Red Guards from the Viborg factory district--men whose only military equipment was a rifle slung over the shoulder, and a conviction that the hour of the proletariat had come, and that they were the defenders of the cause of the workers of the world--came to a halt on the north bank of the Neva. The bridges were guarded by cadets from the Engineers’ School, placed there the night before, when Kerensky had ordered them opened. At the point of their guns, the factory workers ordered the officers to close them again. The engineers obeyed, and the street-cars started blithely on their way back and forth across the river, just as if nothing had happened. At the same moment, two detachments of Bolshevist soldiers and sailors, acting under orders from the Military Revolutionary Committee, took possession of the telephone exchange and the General Staff. It was all done so swiftly and so quietly that the Bolshevik battle was half won before Petrograd awoke to the knowledge that civil war was on. It was nine o’clock when Petroff brought me tea and word that the Bolsheviki had that minute taken possession of the hotel. Petroff’s astounding news sent me hurriedly into the hall, and into the arms of a squad of soldiers. The young officer in command detained me. “Amerikanka Korrespondent,” I explained, and indicated a desire to go downstairs. “Pazhal’sta, pazhal’sta!” he said, bowing low, and motioning his men to let me pass. At the head of the winding staircase groups of frightened women were gathered, searching the marble lobby below with troubled eyes. Nobody seemed to know what had happened. The Battalion of Death had walked out in the night, without firing so much as a single shot. Each floor was crowded with soldiers and Red Guardsmen, who went from room to room, searching for arms, and arresting officers suspected of anti-Bolshevik sympathies. The landings were guarded by sentries, and the lobby was swarming with men in faded uniforms. Two husky, bearded peasant soldiers were stationed behind the counter, and one in the cashier’s office kept watch over the safe. Two machine-guns poked their ominous muzzles through the entry-way. My letter of credit was inside the safe, and the only other money I had was an uncashed check for eight hundred rubles. I started for the National City Bank on the slender chance of finding it open. I was just in time. Within the hour the Bolsheviki captured the State Bank, and all the others promptly closed their doors.