He means yellow and blue.'
'The Bolsheviks' flag is red.'
'Quiet!'
'Hurrah!'
'He speaks bad Ukrainian, that fellow.'
'Comrades!
You are now faced by a new task-to raise and strengthen the independent Ukrainian republic for the good of the toiling masses, the workers and peasants, because only those who have watered our native soil with their fresh blood and sweat have the right to rule it!'
'Hear, hear!
Hurrah!'
'Did you hear that? He called us "comrades".
That's funny . . .'
'Qui-et.'
'Therefore, citizens, let us swear an oath now in the joyous hour of the people's victory.' The speaker's eyes began to flash, he stretched his arms towards the sky in mounting excitement and the Ukrainian words in his speech grew fewer and fewer - 'and let us take an oath that we will not lay down our arms until the red flag - the symbol of liberty - is waving over a world in which the workers have been victorious.'
'Hurrah!
Hurrah! . . .
The "Internationale" . . .'
'Shut up, Vasya.
Have you gone crazy?'
'Quiet, you!'
'No, I can't help it, Mikhail Semymovich, I'm going to sing it: "Arise, ye starvelings from your slumbers . . ." '
The black sideburns disappeared into their owner's thick beaver collar and all that could be seen were his eyes glancing nervously towards his excited companion in the crowd, eyes which were strangely similar to those of the late Lieutenant Shpolyansky who had died on the night of December 14th.
His hand in a yellow glove reached out and pulled Shchur's arm down . . .
'All right, all right, I won't', muttered Shchur, staring intently at the fair-haired man.
The speaker, who was now well into his stride and had gripped the attention of the mass of people nearest to him, was shouting:
'Long live the Soviets of workers', peasants' and cossacks' deputies.
Long live . . .'
Suddenly the sun went in and a shadow fell on the domes of St Sophia; Bogdan's face and the speaker's face were more sharply outlined.
His blond lock of hair could be seen bouncing on his forehead.
'Aaah . . . aaah . . .' murmured the crowd.
'. . . the Soviets of workers', peasants' and Red Army soldiers' deputies.
Workers of the world, unite!'
'What's that?
What?
Hurrah!'
A few men's voices and one high, resonant voice at the back of the crowd began singing 'The Red Flag'.
Suddenly, in another part of the crowd a whirlpool of noise and movement burst into life.
'Kill him!
Kill him!' shouted an angry, quavering, tearful man's voice in Ukrainian 'Kill him!
It's a put-up job!
He's a Bolshevik!
From Moscow!
Kill him!
You heard what he said . . .'
A pair of arms shot up into the air.
The orator leaned sideways, then his legs, torso and finally his head, still wearing its hat, disappeared.
'Kill him!' shouted a thin tenor voice in response to the other. 'He's a traitor!
Get him, lads!'
'Stop!
Who's that?
Who's that you've got there?