Markov pushed aside several men who were surrounding him, advanced rapidly towards the soldier, and seized him by the scruff of the neck.
“You? You? Then why don’t you thrust the bayonet into me? The enemy’s bullet has spared me, so let me perish by the hand of my own rifleman....”
The mob was still more intoxicated, but with admiration. Accompanied by tempestuous cheering, Markov and the arrested officers left for Minsk.
Markov was lifted by the wave of events, and gave himself entirely to the struggle, without a thought for himself or for his family. Faith and despair succeeded each other in his mind; he loved his country and felt sorry for the Army, which never ceased to occupy a prominent place in his heart and in his mind.
Reference will be made more than once in the course of this narrative to the personality of Markov, but I could not refrain from satisfying my heart’s desire in adding a few laurels to his wreath—the wreath that was placed upon his tomb by two faithful friends, with the inscription:—
“He lived and died for the good of his country.”
[CHAPTER X.]
The Power—The Duma—The Provisional Government—The High Command—The Soviet of Workmen’s and Soldiers’ Delegates.