Kerosene lamps had replaced the brilliant electric light to which the men were accustomed.  A haze of tobacco smoke created a sort of fog throughout the length of the building, and contrived to soften the harsh lines of the sea of human faces turned towards the raised platform whereon sat the members of the ruling Soviet.  The temperature of the room was cold for all the warming influence of the human gathering, and every man wore his fur-lined pea-jacket closely buttoned.

Once, in a light moment, Bull Sternford had declared that male human nature in the “bunch” was the ugliest thing in the world.  Had he witnessed that sea of faces, so intently, so anxiously turned towards the leaders they had presumably elected, he must have been well satisfied with the truth of his conviction.

Such was the ascendancy and power the Bolshevist leaders had gained in the brief month since the first rumble of industrial war had been heard in Sachigo, that there were few who had failed to obey their summons.  Not only was the hall crowded but a gathering of many hundreds waited outside.  It was the hour of Fate for all.  They understood that.  It was the hour of that Fate which had been decreed by men, who, under the guise of democratic selection had usurped a power over the rest of the community such as no elected parliament of the world had ever been entrusted with.

It was doubtful if the majority fully realised the significance of what was being done.  It is certain that a feeling of deep regret stirred voicelessly in many hearts.  But every man there was a simple wage earner whose horizon was bounded by that which his wage opened up.  For the rest he was left guessing, but more often fearing.  So, with his muscles of iron, his human desires, and his reluctance to apply such untrained reasoning as he possessed, he was ripe subject for fluent, unscrupulous, political agitators, and ready to sweep along with any tide that set in.

The leaders on the platform understood this well enough.  It was their business to understand it.  The others, the leaders’ immediate supporters, were men of fiery youth, or those whose work it was to wreck at all costs, and snatch to themselves, in addition to pay for their fell work, such loot as the wreckage afforded them.

The hum of talk snuffed right out as the leader rose to address the meeting.  It was Leo Murko, the same man, a hard-faced, foreign-looking Hebrew whom a month before Bull’s great arms flung through the broken window into the snowdrift beyond.  His position now, however, was far different from that which it had been when his endeavours had been concentrated upon enrolling a Communist following.  All that had been achieved or sufficiently so.  Now he was the dictator whose orders could be backed by an irresistible force.  His whole manner had changed.  The velvet glove of persuasion had been discarded, and he hurled his commands with deep-throated authority, and the smile of encouragement and persuasion was completely abandoned.