voice.

But Estridge saw that her dark eyes were suddenly brilliant with tears. The big blond girl-soldier saw it, too, and her splendid blue eyes widened. Then, somehow, she had stepped forward and taken Miss Dumont in her strong arms; and, holding her, smiled and gazed intently at her.

“You must not grieve for us,” she said. “We are not afraid. We are happy to go.”

“I know,” said Palla Dumont; and took the girl-soldier’s hands in hers. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Ilse Westgard. And yours?”

“Palla Dumont.”

“English? No?”

“American.”

“Ah! One of our dear Americans! Well, then, you shall tell your countrymen that you have seen many women of many lands fighting rifle in hand, so that the boche shall not strangle freedom in Russia. Will you tell them, Palla?”

“If I ever return.”

“You shall return. I, also, shall go to America. I shall seek for you there, pretty comrade. We shall become friends. Already I love you very dearly.”

She kissed Palla Dumont on both cheeks, holding her hands tightly.

“Tell me,” she said, “why you are in Russia, and where you are now journeying?”

Palla looked at her steadily: “I am the American companion to the Grand Duchess Marie; and I am journeying to the village where the Imperial family is detained, because she has obtained permission for me to rejoin her.”

There was a short silence; the blue eyes of the xx Swedish girl had become frosty as two midwinter stars. Suddenly they glimmered warm again as twin violets:

“Kharasho!” she said smiling. “And do you love your little comrade duchess?”

“Next only to God.”

“That is very beautiful, Palla. She is a child to be enlightened. Teach her the greater truth.”

“She has learned it, Ilse.”

“She?”

“Yes. And, if God wills it, she, and I also, take the vows some day.”

“The veil!”

“Yes.”

“You! A nun!”

“If God accepts me.”

The Swedish girl-soldier stood gazing upon her as though fascinated, crushing Palla’s slim hands between her own.

Presently she shook her head with a wearied smile:

“That,” she said, “is one thing I can not understand––the veil. No. I can understand this–––” turning her head and glancing proudly around her at her girl comrades. “I can comprehend this thing that I am doing. But not what you wish to do, Palla. Not such service as you offer.”

“I wish to serve the source of all good. My heart is too full to be satisfied by serving mankind alone.”

The girl-soldier shook her head: “I try to understand. I can not. I am sorry, because I love you.”

“I love you, Ilse. I love my fellows.”

After another silence:

“You go to the imperial family?” demanded Ilse abruptly.

“Yes.”

“I wish to see you again. I shall try.”

The battalion marched a few moments later.

It was rather a bad business. They went over the top with a cheer. Fifty answered roll call that night.

However, the hun had learned one thing––that women soldiers were inferior to none.

Russia learned it, too. Everywhere battalions were raised, uniformed, armed, equipped, drilled. In the streets of cities the girl-soldiers became familiar sights: nobody any longer turned to stare at them. There were several dozen girls in the officers’ school, trying for commissions. In all the larger cities there were infantry battalions of girls, Cossack troops, machine gun units, signallers; they had a medical corps and transport service.

But never but once again did they go into action. And their last stand was made facing their own people, the brain-crazed Reds.

And after that the Battalion of Death became only a name; and the girl-soldiers bewildered fugitives, hunted down by the traitors who had sold out to the Germans at Brest-Litovsk. xxiii

PREFACE

A door opened; the rush of foggy air set the flames of the altar candles blowing wildly. There came the clank of armed men.

Then, in the dim light of the chapel, a novice sprang to her feet, brushing the white veil from her pallid young face.

At that the ex-Empress, still kneeling, lifted her head from her devotions and calmly turned it, looking around over her right shoulder.

The file of Red infantry advanced, shuffling slowly forward as though feeling their way through the candle-lit dusk across the stone floor. Their accoutrements clattered and clinked in the intense stillness. A slovenly officer, switching a thin, naked sword in his ungloved fist, led them. Another officer, carrying a sabre and marching in the rear, halted to slam and lock the heavy chapel door; then he ran forward to rejoin his men, while the chapel still reverberated with the echoes of the clanging door.

A chair or two fell, pushed aside by the leading soldiers and hastily kicked out of the way as the others advanced more swiftly now. For there seemed to be some haste. These men were plainly in a hurry, whatever their business there might be.

The Tzesarevitch, kneeling beside his mother, got up from his knees with visible difficulty. The Empress also rose, leisurely, supporting herself by one hand resting on the prie-dieu.

Then several young girls, who had been kneeling behind her at their devotions, stood up and turned to stare at the oncoming armed men, now surrounding them.

The officer carrying the naked sword, and reeking with fumes of brandy, counted these women in a loud, thick voice.

“That’s right,” he said. “You’re all present––one! two! three! four! five! six!––the whole accursed brood!” pointing waveringly with his sword from one to another.

Then he laughed stupidly, leering out of his inflamed eyes at the five women who all wore the garbs of the Sisters of Mercy, their white coiffes and tabliers contrasting sharply with the sombre habits of the Russian nuns who had gathered in the candle-lit dusk behind them.

“What do you wish?” demanded the ex-Empress in a fairly steady voice.

“Answer to your names!” retorted the officer brutally. The other officer came up and began to fumble for a note book in the breast of his dirty tunic. When he found it he licked the lead of his pencil and squinted at the ex-Empress out of drunken eyes.

“Alexandra Feodorovna!” he barked in her face. “If you’re here, say so!”

She remained calm, mute, cold as ice.

A soldier behind her suddenly began to shout:

“That’s the German woman. That’s the friend of the Staretz Novykh! That’s Sascha! Now we’ve got her, the thing to do is to shoot her–––”

“Mark her present,” interrupted the officer in command. “No ceremony, now. Mark the cub Romanoff present. Mark ’em all––Olga, Tatyana, Marie, xxv Anastasia!––no matter which is which––they’re all Romanoffs–––”

But the same soldier who had interrupted before bawled out again: “They’re not Romanoffs! There are no German Romanoffs. There are no Romanoffs in Russia since a hundred and fifty years–––”

The little Tzesarevitch, Alexis, red with anger, stepped forward to confront the man, his frail hands fiercely clenched. The officer in command struck him brutally across the breast with the flat of his sword, shoved him aside, strode toward the low door of the chapel crypt and jerked it open.

“Line them up!” he bawled. “We’ll settle this Romanoff dispute once for all! Shove them into line! Hurry up,