There was a general gathering of types. Nobles mixed with the poorest,
meanest and most criminal classes, and mingled with their common
sorrow. For the most part a dumbness, a silence prevailed. The shock
of the national disaster had bereft the people of their powers of
expression.

Since 1770, Poland had been torn and racked by foes on every hand.
Prussia, Austria and Russia envied her wealth, courage, and her fertile
plains. Little by little her enemies had pressed across her shrinking
borders, wet with the blood of her patriot sons. Little by little she
had lost her cherished land until the day of doom August third, 1915.

Sitting, hiding in their desolated city, the people of Poland knew that
theirs was a country no longer on the map. Russia, Austria and Prussia
at least had met. There was no longer any Poland. For generations
there had been no Polish language; it was forbidden by her oppressors.
Now the country itself was swallowed up. No longer on the changing map
of the world had she any place.

But in the hearts of her people Poland lives. With the most perfect
loyalty and love in the world, they say, "We are Poland. We live and
die for her."

A gray haze hung over Warsaw. The streets, after the roar of great
guns, the bursting of shells, and the cries of thousands of people
rushing blindly to safety, seemed silent and deserted. The hated enemy
held the town, and the people of Warsaw, most hapless city of all
history, cowered beneath the iron hand of the enemy.

As is usual in the fearful lull after such a victory, the town was