stein was sent on the long journey to Sakhalin, that cursèd island of banishment and death, of which I had occasion to write more fully in Man and Mystery in Asia. There Volkenstein became the good angel of the inmates of the prison, helping them medically and spiritually. Even the administrators of the penal island valued the fine qualities of this unusual woman, full of patience, forgiveness and sacrifice for others, and, in recognition of her qualities and service, finally obtained permission for her to live in Vladivostok, as her health was far from good.
Sophie Volkenstein, with a sad but sweet smile, marched at the head of the procession of demonstrators, thinking how she was now voicing her demand that human and ordinary citizen's rights be granted the Russian people, demanding them from the grandson of him who, because he would not acknowledge and grant these rights, was torn into shreds by a bomb thrown by a revolutionist.
"The Romanoffs have learned nothing and have forgotten nothing," this sad woman bitterly reflected.
The noise of machine-guns interrupted this train of thought with a suddenness as sharp as it was bitter. The whistling bullets cut the cold air; then they were silent. The panic-stricken crowd scattered in every direction, scurrying over the Place in front of the station, sheltering in the school building hard by or fleeing into the side streets. Two bodies remained behind on the pavement. One was that of Sophie Volkenstein, this woman who yearned for the freedom of a people and who went down without a shadow or spot on her conscience, disheartened and disgusted with vacillating officials, who sacrificed everything sacred to the greed of a career. She fell as she had lived—fighting in the front rank. The
