He talked to them in a patient, reasonable tone, as one would speak to a child, and like children they gave up their plunder. One man, a soldier who had taken a blanket, protested. “But I am cold,” he said. “I can’t help it, tavarisch. If you take that, they will say we came to loot. And we did not come for loot: we came for revolution.” At that moment there was a clatter on the stairs, and I turned to see the members of the Provisional Government file slowly down. Konovaloff, vice-president of the Cabinet and Minister of Trade and Industry, came first. Tretiakoff of Moscow, president of the Economic Council, followed. Behind him was the tall, dark, slender, handsome figure of the young Foreign Minister, Tereshchenko, who cast an amazed glance in my direction as he passed. Next in line came the little, frail, gray figure of Kishkin, Minister of Public Welfare, and after him two military men in uniform, General Manikovsky, Acting Minister of War, and General Borisoff. Among the others were practically all the remaining members of the Kerensky Cabinet. Some of them walked with defiant step and heads held high. Some were pale, worn, and anxious. One or two seemed utterly crushed and broken. The strain of that day of anxious waiting, and that night under the capricious guns of the cruiser _Aurora_, coupled with the weeks when Cabinet crisis had followed Cabinet crisis, had proved too much for them. They marched silently off across the square, and headed for the Fortress of Peter and Paul, rising grimly out of the darkness beyond the Neva. I sat there silently watching them go, and wondering what this night’s work would mean in the future of Russia and the world. The _commissaire_ who had motioned us to the seat indicated that we might now go upstairs, and we passed quickly to the council chamber. We made our way through the shattered rooms, blazing now with a million lights from the twinkling crystal chandeliers. The silk curtains hung in shreds, and here and there on the walls was the ugly scar of a recent bullet. On the whole, the destruction was much less than we had expected to find it. The attacking force had gone about its work, determined to take the palace, but to take it with as little bloodshed as possible, and in the lulls between storms they had made frequent attempts to break the resistance by fraternization. None of the defenders had been killed, but six of the sailors who had fought in the open square had paid with their lives for their revolutionary ardor, and many others had been wounded. As we passed the door of Kerensky’s office, formerly the study of the last of the Romanoffs, one of the palace care-takers spoke to the two soldiers standing guard outside. “Take good care of this,” he said. “The library is very valuable.” Later, Mr. Gomberg, anxious to test the guard, presented a pass and asked for admission. “I am sorry,” said one of the soldiers, “but this pass is not good here. No one can enter this room to-night.”