He listened very attentively and politely to me and afterwards, in his quiet voice, said: 

“Dr. Gay is the agent of the Soviets, disguised as a White in order the better to see, hear and know everything.  We are surrounded by our enemies.  The Russian people are demoralized and will undertake any treachery for money.  Such is Gay.  Anyway, what is the use of discussing him further?  He and his family are no longer alive.  Today my men cut them to pieces five kilometres from here.”

In consternation and fear I looked at the face of this small, dapper man with such soft voice and courteous manners.  In his eyes I read such hate and tenacity that I understood at once the trembling respect of all the officers whom I had seen in his presence.  Afterwards in Urga I learned more of this General Rezukhin distinguished by his absolute bravery and boundless cruelty.  He was the watchdog of Baron Ungern, ready to throw himself into the fire and to spring at the throat of anyone his master might indicate.

Only four days then had elapsed before “my acquaintances” died “by a long knife,” so that one part of the prediction had been thus fulfilled.  And now I have to await Death’s threat to me.  The delay was not long.  Only two days later the Chief of the Asiatic Division of Cavalry arrived—­Baron Ungern von Sternberg.

CHAPTER XXXIII

“Death from the white man will stand behind you”

“The terrible general, the Baron,” arrived quite unexpectedly, unnoticed by the outposts of Colonel Kazagrandi.  After a talk with Kazagrandi the Baron invited Colonel N. N. Philipoff and me into his presence.  Colonel Kazagrandi brought the word to me.  I wanted to go at once but was detained about half an hour by the Colonel, who then sped me with the words: 

“Now God help you!  Go!”

It was a strange parting message, not reassuring and quite enigmatical.  I took my Mauser and also hid in the cuff of my coat my cyanide of potassium.  The Baron was quartered in the yurta of the military doctor.  When I entered the court, Captain Veseloffsky came up to me.  He had a Cossack sword and a revolver without its holster beneath his girdle.  He went into the yurta to report my arrival.

“Come in,” he said, as he emerged from the tent.

At the entrance my eyes were struck with the sight of a pool of blood that had not yet had time to drain down into the ground—­an ominous greeting that seemed to carry the very voice of one just gone before me.  I knocked.

“Come in!” was the answer in a high tenor.  As I passed the threshold, a figure in a red silk Mongolian coat rushed at me with the spring of a tiger, grabbed and shook my hand as though in flight across my path and then fell prone on the bed at the side of the tent.