Their officer moved out into the firelight––a reckless rider but a dull brain––and stood lashing at his snow-crusted boots with the silver-mounted quirt.
“Like gendarmes,” he said, “we Cossacks are forever doing the dirty work of other people. Why? It begins to sicken me. Why are we forever executing the law! What law? Who made it? The Tzar. And he is dead, and what is the good of the law he made?
“Why should free Cossacks be policemen any more when there is no law?
“We played gendarme for the Monarchists. We answered the distress call of the Cadets and the bourgeoisie! Where are they? Where is the law they made?”
He stood switching his dirty boots and swinging his heavy head right and left with the stupid, lowering menace of a bull.
“Then came the Mensheviki with their law,” he bellowed xxxvii suddenly. “Again we became policemen, galloping to their whistle. Where are they? Where is their law?”
He spat on the snow, twirled his quirt.
“There is only one law to govern the land,” he roared. “It is the law of hands off and mind your business! It’s a good law.”
“A good law for those who already have something,” cried a high, thin voice from the throng of peasants.
The Cossacks, who all possessed their portion of land, yelled with laughter. One of them called out to the Swedish girl for her opinion, and the fair young giantess strode gracefully out into the fire-ring, her cap in her hand and the thick blond ringlets shining like gold on her beautiful head.