74 CASUALS IN THE CAUCASUS 



waited for the show to begin. Cecily promised to 

 translate as things progressed, but half the time the 

 Russian eluded her, or it wasn't Russian, but a patois 

 of Tatar, or something. But we caught a little, and 

 in a political meeting all over the world enough is as 

 good as a feast. 



One stalwart, more pushing than the rest, began to 

 harangue, punctuating his words with a long whip. 

 Crack ! We demand this ! Crack ! We demand 

 that ! For all the world like the familiar tub-thumper 

 of Hyde Park. Then a great shout arose. Stephan 

 would speak. Stephan ! Stephan ! Evidently the 

 Lord Rosebery of the Caucasus. 

 " Stephan ! Stephan ! " 



The words rolled away, a riot of resonant sound, 

 over the Maidan, up and up to the hoary ruined for- 

 tress built by Mustapha Pacha in the sixteenth 

 century. The harsh echoes woke the hallowed spell, 

 and the towers flung back the name faintly, tersely, 

 " Stephan ! Stephan ! " 



The orator was hoisted aloft, a little weather- 

 beaten figure, but clean and well brushed-up looking. 

 " Your politicians have evermore a taste of vanity." 

 He looked at the crowd in an all-embracing smile of 

 gay friendhness, shaking his head the while. At last 

 he spoke. 



" I will wait," translated Cecily, " I will wait until 

 I have something to say." 



If every orator followed Stephan's example, what on 

 earth would become of our political meetings ! 



Some diplomatist — Talleyrand, I think — told us that 



