The Black Cross | Page 6

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.
In every case the name was left a blank; but in that strange pause, as if
for judgment, the eyes of the masks sought the bier, resting with slow
fascination on the words across it, gleaming scarlet beneath the
flickering candles, vivid and red like blood.
The final accusation had been made. The twelfth and last mask had
sunk back in his chair and the leader rose. The silence was like a pall
over the table. When his voice broke through, it was sharp and stern, as
the voice of a judge admonishing a court.
"You have all heard," he said, "You are aware of what this man has
done, is now doing, will continue to do. Does he merit to live?--Has he
deserved to die? For the sake of our country, our people, ourselves,
deliberate and determine.--His fate rests in the hands of the Black
Cross."
He bowed his head on his breast and waited. No one moved or spoke.
At the far end of the room, the candles dripped one by one on the bier,
falling lower and lower. Occasionally the wax flared up, lighting the
darkness; then all was dim.
Suddenly, as from some mysterious impulse, the thirteen sprang to their
feet, and again their hands flashed out in that curious crisscross motion
over the breast, the forehead, the eyes, and a murmur went from mouth
to mouth like a hiss.
"Cmeptb--Death!" rising into a sound so intense, so terrifying, so

muffled and suppressed and menacing, it was as the cry of an animal
wounded, dying, about to spring. Falling on their knees, they remained
motionless for a moment; then, following the leader, each stepped
forward in turn and took their places about the bier.
The ceremony that followed was strange and solemn; one that no
outside eye has ever gazed on, no lips have ever dared to breathe. They
stood in the shadow of death, their own and another's. Their heads were
bowed. Their bodies shook and trembled. With hands raised they took
the oath, terrible, relentless, overpowering, gripping them from now on
as in a vice; both sexes alike, with voices spent and faint with emotion.
"In the name of the Black Cross I do now pledge myself, an instrument
in the service of Justice and Retribution. On whomsoever the choice of
Fate shall fall, I vow the sentence of Death shall be fulfilled, by mine
own hands if needs be, without weakness, or hesitation, or mercy. And
if by any untoward chance this hand should fail, I swear--I swear,
before the third day shall have passed, to die instead--to die--instead."
The words ended in a whisper, low, intense, prescient of a woe not to
be borne.
"I swear--I pledge myself--by mine own hands if needs be."
A sigh broke the stillness. The masks stirred, recovered themselves and