with Yunkers. They jump as tho it is the crack of doom.
"American correspondent," they gasp. "O! Help us! Help us!"
"How can I?" I falter. "What shall I do?"
"Something—anything!" they implore. "Only save us."
Some one says, "Antonov." The others catch up the name, repeating it like an incantation. "Antonov. Yes, Antonov. Go to Antonov. Downstairs—Antonov. Quick, before it is too late—Antonov!" They point the way.
In a minute I make another headlong entrance before another astounded audience—the captive Reds and Antonov.
"You are all free. The officers have fled. The Yunkers surrender. They beg you to save them. Any terms. All they ask is their lives. Only hurry, hurry."
In a moment this prisoner Antonov awaiting death becomes the arbiter of death. The condemned is asked to be the judge. A startling change! But the face of this little, tired overworked Revolutionist did not change. If the thought of revenge flashed into his mind, it as quickly flashed out again. "So I am not to be a corpse but a commander," he said wanly. "Next thing is to see the Yunkers is it? Very well." He put on his hat and walked upstairs to the Yunkers.
"Antonov! Gospadeen Antonov! Commander
