The words
simply pouring from him in a torrent, his voice now rising into a shrill
scream, now sinking into a funny broken bass like the growl of a young
baby tiger. And yet he was never ridiculous. I've known other mortals,
and myself one of the foremost, who, under the impulse of some sudden
anger, enthusiasm, or regret, have been simply figures of fun....
Markovitch was never that. He was like a dying man fighting for
possession of the last plank. I can't at this distance of time remember
all that he said. He talked a great deal about Russia; while he spoke I
noticed that he avoided Semyonov's eyes, which never for a single
instant left his face.
"Oh, don't you see, don't you see?" he cried. "Russia's chance has come
back to her? We can fight now a holy, patriotic war. We can fight, not
because we are told to by our masters, but because we, of our own free
will, wish to defend the soil of our sacred country. _Our_ country! No
one has thought of Russia for the last two years--we have thought only
of ourselves, our privations, our losses--but now--now. O God! the world
may be set free again because Russia is at last free!"
"Yes," said Semyonov quietly (his eyes covered Markovitch's face as a
searchlight finds out the running figure of a man).
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