forget, mingled with curses and cries:--"Vive la greve!"

"To hell with the Cossacks!"

"Kahm on--shoot!"

The backs of the soldiers, determined, unyielding, were covered with
heavy brown capes that fell below the waist. As Janet's glance wandered
down the line it was arrested by the face of a man in a visored woollen
cap--a face that was almost sepia, in which large white eyeballs struck a
note of hatred. And what she seemed to see in it, confronting her, were
the hatred and despair of her own soul! The man might have been a
Hungarian or a Pole; the breadth of his chin was accentuated by a wide,
black moustache, his attitude was tense,--that of a maddened beast ready
to spring at the soldier in front of him. He was plainly one of those who
had reached the mental limit of endurance.

In contrast with this foreigner, confronting him, a young lieutenant
stood motionless, his head cocked on one side, his hand grasping the club
held a little behind him, his glance meeting the other's squarely, but
with a different quality of defiance. All his faculties were on the
alert. He wore no overcoat, and the uniform fitting close to his figure,
the broad-brimmed campaign hat of felt served to bring into relief the
physical characteristics of the American Anglo-Saxon, of the
individualist who became the fighting pioneer. But Janet, save to
register the presence of the intense antagonism between the two, scarcely
noticed her fellow countryman.... Every moment she expected to see the
black man spring,--and yet movement would have marred the drama of that
consuming hatred....