lling. They were learning to walk, and their arms swung stiffly and
self-consciously, and their legs bent at the knees and straightened
again like the wooden legs of mechanical toys. As they marched, they
sang wonderful Russian soldier songs. They appeared to be about
twenty-three or twenty-four, as though they had got their growth, and
were tall and broad-shouldered--not at all like the batch of Austrian
prisoners we passed a few minutes later, and who looked like pathetic,
bewildered children, beardless for the most part, and in uniforms too
large for them. They shuffled along in a cloud of gray dust under a
metallic sun. Some were slightly wounded in the head or arm, and were
supported by their comrades. As I passed, I encountered certain
eyes--frank, gray eyes that reminded me of Morris. The long, white,
dusty road became tragic to me, with the prisoners in their worn blue
uniforms, and those who were about to die, singing in the distance.

We met bullock-carts crawling into town, coming from distant villages,
with fresh vegetables for the markets. The peasants walked by the oxen,
prodding them with short sticks. There seem to be so many men here of
military age, yet not in the army. It isn't like other countries, where
every one but the Jews is in uniform. Russia has so many men. They say
five million more could easily be raised if they had the officers and
ammunition.

We reached a high plaster wall, with little booths built under its
shadows, where pilgrims bought souvenirs of the Lavra--gaudy ikons,
colored handkerchiefs and shawls, beads and baskets.

A group of pilgrims entered the gate in front of us, all from the same
village, evidently, for the women's dresses resembled each other's in
cut and embroidery, and a few of the younger women's were even dyed the
same color, as often happens in wool of the same shearing. In spite of
the heat, the men wore sheepskin coats and fur caps, and the women's
skirts were thick with petticoats. Some of the women led children by the
hand; others carried babies in their arms, poor little mites, with faces
covered with sores, and eyes red and blinking as though they were going
blind. They all bent and kissed the hand of the priest who sold candles
under the covered arched gateway, and then they passed into the open
square surrounded by the monastery walls. There was a sort of garden
here; all the grass worn off by the countless pilgrims who had visited
the shrine, but with t