Suddenly a far voice shouted: “Who goes there! Stoi!”
Then red flashes came out of the night; Cossacks ran for their horses; Ilse appeared with Palla’s pony as well as her own, and halted to listen, the fearless smile playing over her face.
“Mount!” cried many voices at once. “The Reds!”
Palla flung herself astride her saddle; Ilse galloped beside her, freeing her pistols; everywhere in the starlight the riders of the Wild Division came galloping, loosening their long lances as they checked their horses in close formation.
Then, with scarcely a sound in the unbroken snow, they filed away eastward at a gentle trot, under the pale lustre of the stars. 1
THE CRIMSON TIDE
CHAPTER I
On the 7th of November, 1917, the Premier of the Russian Revolutionary Government was a hunted fugitive, his ministers in prison, his troops scattered or dead. Three weeks later, the irresponsible Reds had begun their shameful career of treachery, counselled by a pallid, black-eyed man with a muzzle like a mouse––one L. D. Bronstein, called Trotzky; and by two others––one a bald, smooth-shaven, rotund little man with an expression that made men hesitate, and features not trusted by animals and children.