It is not fair to ask: “Are the people of Russia ready for self-government?” It is not fair, because we know that ability to do anything successfully must rest on experience. We do know this, however, that a government of the Russian people by the people would not be a government whose power rested on terrorism, whose methods included outrage and massacre. It would be parliamentary in every sense. Its mistakes would be parliamentary mistakes which would be corrected by parliamentary methods. The peril lies in increased restrictions and the gradual weeding out of most of the strong, promising men. The promise of the future is that permanent democratic government in Russia will first have to be fought for, precisely as all liberty is battled for. The key to the present situation is, in the words of the Czar: “I believe Russia can run for twenty years more without a parliament, and I shall do all I can to guide my country back to where we were before the October manifesto.” CHAPTER X A CONSPIRATIVE MEETING A member of the military organization--Realities of the revolution--Kronstadt--Revolutionary headquarters among the soldiers and sailors--A conspirative gathering--Smuggling forbidden literature--A surprise--Disguised as a Russian sailor--A thrilling experience--An inspiring episode--Shadowed!--Flight--Plan of escape--Capture deferred. There the gallows, rope, and hooks; And the hangman’s beard is red; People round and poisoned looks-- Nothing new and nothing dread! I am breath, dew, all resources, After fifty hangings; why! Would you hang me? Save your forces! Why kill me who cannot die! _Nietzsche._ Pasha belonged to the military organization, so called because the members work exclusively among the soldiers and sailors. In other words, Pasha mounted the gallows steps every time she left the comparative security of her home for her “work”; Pasha was a veritable Nathan Hale in spirit; she loved liberty, she loved her country; she was sad only when she remembered that she could live but once for Russia. “I try to live each day,” she said to me on a certain occasion, “so that every day will justify my whole life.” To-day she rests her head against the iron bars that shut her apart from the blue of heaven, the warming sun, and God’s sweet fields. And across the melancholy wastes of Siberia, in a far settlement of half-wild men called Ostiaks, Pasha’s comrade, Paul Ivanovitch, toils in iron shackles, dreaming, no doubt, of the days when Russia shall be free. But this is anticipating.