Again, in an authoritative tone, I demanded to be taken to Krasiloff; and presently, after being marched as prisoners across the town, past scenes so horrible that they are still vividly before my eyes, we were taken into the chief police-office, where the hated official, a fat, red-faced man in a general’s uniform—the man without pity or remorse, the murderer of women and children—was sitting at a table. He greeted me with a grunt.
“General,” I said, addressing him, “I have to present to you this order of my sovereign, King Edward, and to demand safe conduct. Your soldiers found me and my——”
I hesitated.
“Your pretty Jewess—eh?” and a smile of sarcasm spread over his fat face. “Well, go on;” and he took the paper I handed him, knitting his brows again as his eyes fell upon the Imperial arms and the signature.
“We were found in a cellar where we had hidden from the revolt,” I said.
“The place has been used for the manufacture of bombs,” declared one of the Cossacks.
The General looked my pretty companion straight in the face.
“What is your name, girl?” he demanded roughly.
“Luba Lazereff.”
“Native of where?”