“Listen! Listen to this soldier of the Death Battalion!” shouted the Cossacks in great glee. “She will tell us what the law should be!”
She laughed: “We fought for it––we women soldiers,” she said. “And the law we fought for was made when the first tyrant fell.
“This is the law: Freedom of mind; liberty of choice; an equal chance for all; no violence; only orderly debate to determine the will of the land.”
A Cossack said loudly: “Da volna! Those who have nothing would take, then, from those who have!”
“I think not!” cried another,“––not in the Urals!”
Thunderous laughter from their comrades and cries of, “Palla! Let us hear our pretty boy, who has made for the whole world a law.”
Palla Dumont, her slender hands thrust deep in her great coat sleeves, and standing like a nun lost in mystic revery, looked up with gay audacity––not like xxxviii a nun at all, now, save for the virginal allure that seemed a part of the girl.
“There is only one law, Tavarishi,” she said, turning slightly from her hips as she spoke, to include those behind her in the circle: “and that law was not made by man. That law was born, already made, when the first man was born. It has never changed. It comprehends everything; includes everything and everybody; it solves all perplexity, clears all doubts, decides all questions.
“It is a living law; it exists; it is the key to every problem; and it is all ready for you.”
The girl’s face had altered; the half mischievous audacity in defiance of her situation––the gay, impudent confidence in herself and in these wild comrades of hers, had given place to something more serious, more ardent––the youthful intensity that smiles through the flaming enchantment of suddenly discovered knowledge.