An amazing interruption checked him––a clear, crystalline peal of laughter; and the astounded audience saw a tall, fresh, yellow-haired girl standing up midway down the hall. It was Ilse Westgard, unable to endure such nonsense, and quite regardless of Brisson’s detaining hand and Shotwell’s startled remonstrance.
“What that man says is absurd!” she cried, her fresh young voice still gay with laughter. “He looks like a Prussian, and if he is he ought to know where the law of force has landed his nation.”
In the ominous silence around her, Ilse turned and gaily surveyed the audience.
“The law of force is the law of robbers,” she said. “That is why this war has been fought––to educate robbers. And if there remain any robbers they’ll have to be educated. Don’t let anybody tell you that the law of force is the law of life!–––”
“Who are you?” interrupted Bromberg hoarsely.
“An ex-soldier of the Death Battalion, comrade,” said Ilse cheerfully. “I used a rifle in behalf of the law of education. Sometimes bayonets educate, sometimes machine guns. But the sensible way is to have a meeting, and everybody drink tea and smoke cigarettes and discuss their troubles without reserve, and 159 then take a vote as to what is best for everybody concerned.”
And she seated herself with a smile just as the inevitable uproar began.
All around her now men and women were shouting at her; inflamed faces ringed her; gesticulating fists waved in the air.
“What are you––a spy for Kerensky?” yelled a man in Russian.
“The bourgeoisie has its agents here!” bawled a red-haired Jew. “I offer a solemn protest–––”