In regular marching order they departed as they had come--a sad and solemn procession, helpless in the face of this new, strange thing upsetting all their preconceived ideas of revolution. We watched them go; then, anxious to press on, we presented our passes to the commissaire of soldiers, who motioned us forward with a “Pazhal’sta!” The wall broke, and we passed through without a word. The blue seal of the Military Revolutionary Committee had done for us what eloquence and argument could not do for the old revolutionists. At the Moika the Red Guard halted us. Our passes made no appeal here. We looked suspiciously like bourgeois on the way to the Winter Palace, and must not be allowed to pass. We argued, and they discussed the advisability of arresting us. The idea did not especially appeal, so we retraced our steps to the Kazan Cathedral and the friendly commissaire. He detailed a man with special orders to take us through the lines to the Winter Palace. Again the factory men with rifles slung over their shoulders regarded us with suspicion; but they took the word of the soldier and finally permitted us to pass. It was quarter of three when we halted in the shadow of the great red arch and peered cautiously out into the dark square. There was a moment of silence; then three rifle shots shattered the quiet. We stood speechless, awaiting a return volley; but the only sound was the crunching of broken glass spread like a carpet over the cobblestones. The windows of the Winter Palace had been broken into bits. Suddenly a sailor emerged from the black. “It’s all over!” he said. “They have surrendered.” We picked our way across the glass-strewn square, climbed the barricade erected that afternoon by the defenders of the Winter Palace, and followed the conquering sailors and Red Guardsmen into the mammoth building of dingy red stucco. On the strength of our blue-sealed passes, they permitted us to enter unquestioned. A commissaire of sailors motioned us to a bench beside the wall. A squad of sailors mounted the stairs to the council chamber, and placed the Provisional Government under arrest. Above us we could hear the sound of doors being broken open, while a searching squad went from room to room looking for hidden prisoners. The rifles taken from the military cadets were stacked in a heap in the hall, and a solid line of victorious sailors filed in and out of the palace. The desire for souvenirs, trophies of the hour, seemed to have seized them; but the palace apparently offered little choice. One sailor came down the stairs with a coat-hanger in his hand, and another carried a sofa cushion. The best a third could find was a candle. The commissaire stopped them at the door. “No, no, tavarisch!” he said, holding out his hand. “Pazhal’sta, pazhal’sta, you must take nothing from here.”