They were fine-looking men, and their faces expressed childish and rather worried amiability.  The crowd obviously feared them not at all, and I saw a woman standing with her hand on the neck of one of the horses, talking in a very friendly fashion to the soldier who rode it.  “That’s strange,” I thought to myself; “there’s something queer here.”  It was then, just at the entrance of the “Malaia Koniushennaia,” that a strange little incident occurred.  Some fellow—­I could just see his shaggy head, his pale face, and black beard—­had been shouting something, and suddenly a little group of Cossacks moved towards him and he was surrounded.  They turned off with him towards a yard close at hand.  I could hear his voice shrilly protesting; the crowd also moved behind, murmuring.  Suddenly a Cossack, laughing, said something.  I could not hear his words, but every one near me laughed.  The little Chinovnik at my side said to me, “That’s right.  They’re not going to shoot, whatever happens—­not on their brothers, they say.  They’ll let the fellow go in a moment.  It’s only just for discipline’s sake.  That’s right.  That’s the spirit!”

“But what about the police?” I asked.

“Ah, the police!” His cheery, good-natured face was suddenly dark and scowling.  “Let them try, that’s all.  It’s Protopopoff who’s our enemy—­not the Cossacks.”

And a woman near him repeated.

“Yes, yes, it’s Protopopoff.  Hurrah for the Cossacks!”

I was squeezed now into a corner, and the crowd swirled and eddied about me in a tangled stream, slow, smiling, confused, and excited.  I pushed my way along, and at last tumbled down the dark stone steps into the “Cave de la Grave,” a little restaurant patronised by the foreigners and certain middle-class Russians.  It was full, and every one was eating his or her meal very comfortably as though nothing at all were the matter.  I sat down with a young American, an acquaintance of mine attached to the American Embassy.

“There’s a tremendous crowd in the Nevski,” I said.

“Guess I’m too hungry to trouble about it,” he answered.

“Do you think there’s going to be any trouble?” I asked.

“Course not.  These folks are always wandering round.  M. Protopopoff has it in hand all right.”

“Yes, I suppose he has,” I answered with a sigh.

“You seem to want trouble,” he said, suddenly looking up at me.

“No, I don’t want trouble,” I answered.  “But I’m sick of this mess, this mismanagement, thievery, lying—­one’s tempted to think that anything would be better—­”

“Don’t you believe it,” he said brusquely.  “Excuse me, Durward, I’ve been in this country five years.  A revolution would mean God’s own upset, and you’ve got a war on, haven’t you?”

“They might fight better than ever,” I argued.

“Fight!” he laughed.  “They’re dam sick of it all, that’s what they are.  And a revolution would leave ’em like a lot of silly sheep wandering on to a precipice.  But there won’t be no revolution.  Take my word.”