from the point where we had been interrupted.

"It is gathering," he said; "there are times when I almost smell
blood in the air. I am an old man and may escape it, but my children
will have to suffer--suffer as children must for the sins of their
fathers. We have made brute beasts of the people, and as brute
beasts they will come upon us, cruel, and undiscriminating; right and
wrong indifferently going down before them. But it has to be. It is
needed."

It is a mistake to speak of the Russian classes opposing to all
progress a dead wall of selfishness. The history of Russia will be
the history of the French Revolution over again, but with this
difference: that the educated classes, the thinkers, who are pushing
forward the dumb masses are doing so with their eyes open. There
will be no Maribeau, no Danton to be appalled at a people's
ingratitude. The men who are to-day working for revolution in Russia
number among their ranks statesmen, soldiers, delicately-nurtured
women, rich landowners, prosperous tradesmen, students familiar with
the lessons of history. They have no misconceptions concerning the
blind Monster into which they are breathing life. He will crush
them, they know it; but with them he will crush the injustice and
stupidity they have grown to hate more than they love themselves.

The Russian peasant, when he rises, will prove more terrible, more
pitiless than were the men of 1790. He is less intelligent, more
brutal. They sing a wild, sad song, these Russian cattle, the while
they work. They sing it in chorus on the quays while hauling the
cargo, they sing it in the factory, they chant on the weary, endless
steppes, reaping the corn they may not eat. It is of the good time