th dark eyes still a
little dazed, there was a sudden commotion among the _mujiks_; a
Cossack called out something in a sharp voice; their officer walked
hastily out into the darkness; a shadowy rider spurred ahead of him.

Suddenly a far voice shouted: "Who goes there! _Stoi!_"

Then red flashes came out of the night; Cossacks ran for their horses;
Ilse appeared with Palla's pony as well as her own, and halted to
listen, the fearless smile playing over her face.

"Mount!" cried many voices at once. "The Reds!"

Palla flung herself astride her saddle; Ilse galloped beside her,
freeing her pistols; everywhere in the starlight the riders of the
Wild Division came galloping, loosening their long lances as they
checked their horses in close formation.

Then, with scarcely a sound in the unbroken snow, they filed away
eastward at a gentle trot, under the pale lustre of the stars.

THE CRIMSON TIDE

CHAPTER I

On the 7th of November, 1917, the Premier of the Russian Revolutionary
Government was a hunted fugitive, his ministers in prison, his troops
scattered or dead. Three weeks later, the irresponsible Reds had begun
their shameful career of treachery, counselled by a pallid, black-eyed
man with a muzzle like a mouse--one L. D. Bronstein, called Trotzky;
and by two others--one a bald, smooth-shaven, rotund little man with
an expression that made men hesitate, and features not trusted by
animals and children.

The Red Parliament called him Vladimir Ulianov, and that's what he
called himself. He had proved to be reticent, secretive, deceitful,
diligent, and utterly unhuman. His lower lip was shaped as though
something dripped from it. Blood, perhaps. His eyes were brown and not
entirely unattractive. But God makes the eyes; the mouth is fashioned
by one's self.

The world knew him as Lenine.

The third man squinted. He wore a patch of sparse cat-hairs on his
chin and upper lip.

His head was too big; his legs too short, but they were always in a
hurry, always in motion. He had a persuasive and ardent tongue, and
practically no mind. The few ideas he possessed inclined him to
violence--always the substitute for reason in this sort of agitator.
It was this ever latent violence that proved persuasive. His name was
Krylenko. His smile was a grin.

These three men betrayed Christ on March 3d, 1918.

On the Finland Road, outside of Petrograd, the Red ragamuffins held a
perpetual carmagnole, and all fugitiv