Kronstadt lies fourteen versts below St. Petersburg on an island in the Gulf of Finland. It is the most important naval station in the empire, commanding the entrance to St. Petersburg, and the residence of the Czar, called Peterhof. Like most military stations it is a miserable little town that subsists chiefly on the garrison. The barracks are scattered close to the fortifications. There is a small park near the center of the town, but even the garrison doesn’t enjoy its monotonous greensward and unkempt walks. Four or five boats a day ply between the capital and Kronstadt. Pasha told me the night before to board the first boat in the morning. We would meet there. Pasha and I arrived at the landing almost simultaneously from different directions, while Paul appeared just before the gang-plank was pulled away. Pasha and Paul represented, to me, the whole rank and file of the revolution. They were so utterly different, yet so absolutely united in purpose. Pasha was a beautiful girl of noble family, educated abroad, fluent in five languages, and even in every-day garb she suggested boudoirs and drawing-rooms, just as lilacs suggest summer, or the tinkle of mandolins suggest soft moonlight, rippling water, and romance. Paul was a Jew. He fairly exuded intellectuality. His hair was towsled, his linen vile, his finger-nails long and black, and his clothes spotted and stained with the feasts of other days. Two personalities could not be more absolutely different, yet they called each other “comrade,” and together shared the perils of this, the most dangerous work of the revolution. The little boat rose and dipped upon the waves and Pasha rested languidly against the deck-house, delighting in the beauty of the sunlight on the water. Paul was like a live wire afoul of other live wires. Pasha’s warm cheeks were fresh with the color of youth and pink with the flush of morning; Paul’s were dead white. Pasha’s eyes were mild and sometimes languorous; Paul’s were abnormally bright at all times, shining like burnished metal. An hour after we left the capital we were bouncing over the crude cobbles of Kronstadt streets in a rickety carriage which left us at a corner near a group of barracks. Several warships were riding at anchor in the bay. We watched them a few minutes and Paul told us how many men of each ship were in the “organization.” Then we walked two blocks west, turned a corner, and entered a courtyard with several stairways leading off to the different apartments in the building. Paul led us to one of these inner entrances and up two flights. A girl opened a door to us and we all filed into a wide room which looked like the comfortable parlor of a small tradesman. There were ferns and rubber-plants in the windows and a canary-bird singing lustily in the warm sunlight that streamed in from the sea.