“Oh I hope so, I do hope so,” said the Bolshevik chief.  “What a regret it is to us Germans to think that unfortunately we are not able to help pay for it; but you English—­you are so generous—­how much we have admired your noble hearts—­so kind, so generous to the vanquished...”

His voice had subsided into a sort of whine.

But at this moment there was a loud knocking at the door.  The Bolshevik hastily wiped the tears from his face and put away his handkerchief.

“How do I look?” he asked anxiously.  “Not humane, I hope?  Not soft?”

“Oh, no,” I said, “quite tough.”

“That’s good,” he answered.  “That’s good.  But am I tough enough?”

He hastily shoved his hands through his hair.

“Quick,” he said, “hand me that piece of chewing tobacco.  Now then.  Come in!”

The door swung open.

A man in a costume much like the leader’s swaggered into the room.  He had a bundle of papers in his hands, and seemed to be some sort of military secretary.

“Ha! comrade!” he said, with easy familiarity.  “Here are the death warrants!”

“Death warrants!” said the Bolshevik.  “Of the leaders of the late Revolution?  Excellent!  And a good bundle of them!  One moment while I sign them.”

He began rapidly signing the warrants, one after the other.

“Comrade,” said the secretary in a surly tone, “you are not chewing tobacco!”

“Yes I am, yes I am,” said the leader, “or, at least, I was just going to.”

He bit a huge piece out of his plug, with what seemed to me an evident distaste, and began to chew furiously.

“It is well,” said the other.  “Remember comrade, that you are watched.  It was reported last night to the Executive Committee of the Circle of the Brothers that you chewed no tobacco all day yesterday.  Be warned, comrade.  This is a free and independent republic.  We will stand for no aristocratic nonsense.  But whom have you here?” he added, breaking off in his speech, as if he noticed me for the first time.  “What dog is this?”

“Hush,” said the leader, “he is a representative of the foreign press, a newspaper reporter.”

“Your pardon,” said the secretary.  “I took you by your dress for a prince.  A representative of the great and enlightened press of the Allies, I presume.  How deeply we admire in Germany the press of England!  Let me kiss you.”

“Oh, don’t trouble,” I said, “it’s not worth while.”

“Say, at least, when you write to your paper, that I offered to kiss you, will you not?”

Meantime, the leader had finished signing the papers.  The secretary took them and swung on his heels with something between a military bow and a drunken swagger.  “Remember, comrade,” he said in a threatening tone as he passed out, “you are watched.”

The Bolshevik leader looked after him with something of a shudder.