There were only two blocks to the L.—­but the snow was so deep and it was so windy and cold, it seemed to me a good mile, till I reached the house.

It was dark as usual.  As usual it seemed dead.  But, when I was quite close to it, I heard some movement inside and I detected something in the yard.  This something materialized very soon into a couple of evil faces and rifles with fixed bayonets.  Inside of the house there were muffled voices.  Near the rear gate (I could see it due to the sloping of the lot) three horses and a snow sledge were standing.  A few voices were raised in dispute in the barn, swearing a blue streak.  “Arrest”—­it was clear.  When I was trying to think of something to help,—­and what could I think of?—­the double pane of the bedroom window was suddenly broken by something heavy thrown from the inside and a desperate piercing voice of Pasha—­I immediately knew it was the poor girl—­shouted with all of the strength of her lungs:  “Help, help!  In Christ’s name, help....”  The cry was broken off in the middle, muffled by the palm of a hand, and became a mutter of despair and horror:  “M-p-p, maa....”  Somebody stuffed a white pillow in the hole.  Again all became quiet.

Then the front door suddenly opened and a man jumped out into the street; another,—­a short fellow clad in a wild Siberian overcoat,—­appeared on the stairs, aimed a Mauser and fired at the man’s back.  I scarcely had time to sit down behind the fence.

Ff ... ap ...  Ff ... ap ...—­sounded two dry, sharp shots.  The first man took two more steps—­and rolled in the snow, feebly groaning from pain.  A black trickle of blood swiftly ran along the snow near my knees.  The Siberian overcoat looked at his victim and with “you, damned carrion,” slammed the door.  Again all was dark and silent.

The man was indeed dead when I reached him.  He had a package of something wrapped in paper—­so I took it,—­I thought it might be something belonging to Ls.

All that was pretty bad, and I did not know how to get away,—­my position being really a poor one in a strategic sense of the word.  I had to escape without attracting too much attention.  When I was thinking over how to do it—­a voice called: 

“Bist du dort, Swartz?”

“Ja wohl!” I answered as nonchalantly as I could, having covered my mouth with my glove, “soll’ ich noch warten?”

“We’ll be through in a minute.  Wait a while!”

I did not wait.  Through wind and snow, crawling like an Indian, I passed the dangerous spot near the gate where I could be seen, then hurried home, almost crying for the poor Ls., and Pasha—­such a sweet girl, probably at that moment being nationalized—­condemning all and everything and especially the impossibility of helping my unfortunate friends.  All was frozen inside of me, due to the cold and this fear of a helpless creature.

When I was about a score of yards from the house—­shooting started behind me—­just as idiotic as in Petrograd or Moscow:  in every direction, bullets cracking the windows, the street lamps, the passers-by,—­on this occasion myself,—­I got a bad one in the sleeve, right near the elbow.