"I know it for a fact, from personal information."
The first mask took his seat and the second rose, a gaunt figure, the shoulders bowed and crippled under the cloak. His voice was deep and full, with tones plaintive and penetrating.
"A month ago there were seven men arrested. They were taken to 'Peter and Paul' and thrust into dungeons unspeakable. They received no trial; they were convicted of no crime; they never saw their families again. Three of these men are now in the mines. Two are still in the cells. Two are dead."
"Why were they arrested and by whose order?"
"They were workmen who had attended a meeting of the Social Democrats and had helped to circulate Liberal papers. It was done by the order of--"
The third mask sprang to his feet. His fists were clenched, and he was breathing hard like one who has been running.
"It is my turn," he cried, "Let me--speak! You know--you haven't forgotten!--On the Tsar's birthday, a band of students marched to the steps of the Winter Palace. They went peacefully, with trust in their hearts, no weapon in their hands. They were surrounded by Cossacks, who beat them with knouts, riding them down. They were boys, some of them hardly out of the Gymnasium, the flower of our youth, brave sons of Russia ready to fight for her and die." He hesitated and his voice broke. "At the foot of the Alexander Column, they were mown down like grass without warning, or mercy; their blood still sprinkles the stones. Many were killed, hundreds arrested, few escaped. At the head of the Cossacks rode--"
A sigh stirred the room deepening into a groan, and then came a hush. Some buried their faces in their hands, weeping silently behind the masks. After a while the Head raised his hand and the fourth rose, slowly, reluctantly, speaking in a woman's voice so faint and low it could scarcely make itself heard. The masks bent forward listening.
"Last week," it murmured, "the Countess Petrushka was suspected. She was torn from her home, imprisoned"--The voice grew lower and lower. "She was beaten--tortured by the guards; she never returned,--yesterday she was--buried." The voice broke into sobs. "The man who signed the paper was--"
So the trial went on amid the stillness, more and more solemn, more and more impressive, as one accusation followed the other in swift succession; the candles dropping low in their sockets, the light growing dimmer, the room larger and lower and more ghostly, the night waning.