“In the Buddhistic and ancient Christian books we read stern predictions about the time when the war between the good and evil spirits must begin.  Then there must come the unknown ‘Curse’ which will conquer the world, blot out culture, kill morality and destroy all the people.  Its weapon is revolution.  During every revolution the previously experienced intellect-creator will be replaced by the new rough force of the destroyer.  He will place and hold in the first rank the lower instincts and desires.  Man will be farther removed from the divine and the spiritual.  The Great War proved that humanity must progress upward toward higher ideals; but then appeared that Curse which was seen and felt by Christ, the Apostle John, Buddha, the first Christian martyrs, Dante, Leonardo da Vinci, Goethe and Dostoyevsky.  It appeared, turned back the wheel of progress and blocked our road to the Divinity.  Revolution is an infectious disease and Europe making the treaty with Moscow deceived itself and the other parts of the world.  The Great Spirit put at the threshold of our lives Karma, who knows neither anger nor pardon.  He will reckon the account, whose total will be famine, destruction, the death of culture, of glory, of honor and of spirit, the death of states and the death of peoples.  I see already this horror, this dark, mad destruction of humanity.”

The door of the yurta suddenly swung open and an adjutant snapped into a position of attention and salute.

“Why do you enter a room by force?” the General exclaimed in anger.

“Your Excellency, our outpost on the border has caught a Bolshevik reconnaissance party and brought them here.”

The Baron arose.  His eyes sparkled and his face contracted with spasms.

“Bring them in front of my yurta!” he ordered.

All was forgotten—­the inspired speech, the penetrating voice—­all were sunk in the austere order of the severe commander.  The Baron put on his cap, caught up the bamboo tashur which he always carried with him and rushed from the yurta.  I followed him out.  There in front of the yurta stood six Red soldiers surrounded by the Cossacks.

The Baron stopped and glared sharply at them for several minutes.  In his face one could see the strong play of his thoughts.  Afterwards he turned away from them, sat down on the doorstep of the Chinese house and for a long time was buried in thought.  Then he rose, walked over to them and, with an evident show of decisiveness in his movements, touched all the prisoners on the shoulder with his tashur and said:  “You to the left and you to the right!” as he divided the squad into two sections, four on the right and two on the left.

“Search those two!  They must be commissars!” commanded the Baron and, turning to the other four, asked:  “Are you peasants mobilized by the Bolsheviki?”

“Just so, Your Excellency!” cried the frightened soldiers.

“Go to the Commandant and tell him that I have ordered you to be enlisted in my troops!”