But frenzy hung in the air; a red cloud of insanity was hovering over
Nepenthe. Although the volcano continued to behave in exemplary
fashion, although the clergy had done their utmost to allay popular
apprehensions, the native mind had not calmed down since the news
concerning the Saint Elias fountain and those other portents had been
disseminated. The inhabitants were in a state of suppressed alarm and
ready, at the least provocation, to burst out into some fiendish act of
folly. And the Russians, especially those latest arrivals, could not
withdraw themselves from the subtle influence of the sound wind, the
frank stimulation of a cloudless sky; it made them fell, after their
gloomy forests and lowering horizons, like wild beasts that rush from
darkened cages into some sunny arena. Everyone lost his wits. The
appearance of a constable, far from restoring order, was the signal for
an uproarious tumult; the FRACAS, as the French artist was heard to
declare, promptly developed into a MELEE. Nobody troubled about the
merits of the case further than that it was a question of Apostles
VERSUS Gentiles.

The former were in sad minority. But they constituted a serried rank of
muscular Christians; they laid about them like those old monks of
Alexandria. All Russians are born fighters--if not on the battlefield,
then at least in the lanes and taverns of their natal villages. The
Little White Cows, wholly ignorant of the difference between their own
law and that of Italy on questions of assault and battery, used their
fists with such success that thirty natives were stretched out in
almost a few seconds. Their Faith was at stake; moreover, and as a
matter of fact, they were enjoying themselves hugely. The occasion
reminded them of a Sunday at home.

Then numbers began to tell--numbers and knives. For your sun-scorched