the funnel, while Major Browne, who stood sentinel beside the driver,
had holes scorched in his uniform. This act of violence secured not only
an engine for my train, but for the others also.

I had broken my glasses, and it was necessary to secure others. I walked
to the town and called at the shop of a jeweller and optician, with whom
we conversed. Other customers joined in the talk, and we were here
informed of the murder of the present owner's mother during the
Bolshevik occupation of the town. The Soviet Commisar, with Red
soldiers, visited the shop one day to loot the stock. The mother, an old
lady over sixty years of age who was then looking after the business,
protested against the robbery of her property. The commisar ordered one
of the Red Guard to bayonet her, which he did. They then proceeded to
remove everything of value, locked up the premises with the dead woman
still lying on the shop floor, and for several days refused permission
to her neighbours to give her decent burial on the plea that she was a
counter-revolutionist. It was evident from the appearance of the place
that the Red soldiers were pretty expert at this sort of business; but
stories like this are so numerous that it is nauseating to repeat them.

The next point of interest was Lake Baikal, or as it is more correctly
described by the Russians, the "Baikal Sea." We approached this famous
lake on a very cold Sunday evening, and long before we reached its
shores the clear cold depths of the water gave evidence of its presence
in the changed atmosphere. A furious gale was blowing across the lake
from the west, which lashed huge waves into fury and foam as they beat
in endless confusion on the rockbound shore. Blinding snow mixed with
the spray gave the inky blackness of the night a weird and sombre
appearance. Our Cossack attendant, Marca, droned a folk-song about the
wonders of the Baikal, which, when interpreted by my liaison officer,