"The firing has begun again."

"Go and tell them, that if it is nothing unusual, it is useless to reply. When the Turks are tired of throwing away ammunition, they will stop of themselves."

Several soldiers entered the courtyard, stamping heavily. Panteleieff lifted his torch and it was seen that they had some one in their midst.

"March on, march on, shaven pate! There is no chance of getting any rest with you fellows about; may the Devil take you!" the soldiers said, grumbling. It was evident that they were not yet aware of the officers'

presence.

"Well, well! Must we then encourage you with a b.u.t.t-end?"

"What is it, my children?" said the Colonel, rising.

"We are bringing a Turk, Colonel. We met him by chance--picked him up under a bush."

"Under a bush? How?"

"He was crouched down like a quail. Lieutenant Va.s.silieff told us to take him alive and to bring him to you, Colonel. His name is Mahmoud."

"Give us a light, Panteleieff."

The Cossack held his torch near the group and the red light showed distinctly a face with a large nose and straggling grey moustaches. The nose had a lump in the middle; the reddish scar of a recent wound was visible on the forehead surmounted by a turban formed of a piece of dirty cloth s.n.a.t.c.hed from some old tent. Mahmoud also wore a yellow cloak made of camel-skin.

"Stop! Stop! he is an officer," said the Colonel, turning towards his friend.

The Major looked at the Turk attentively. "Yes, and he is also an old acquaintance. Don't you recognize him. That scar to begin with, and I am sure he has two fingers missing from his left hand. Show us his left hand."

The soldier who was standing next to Mahmoud took hold of his hand and held it up.

"Yes, it is Mahmoud Bey, a Turkish Colonel. Prisoner and runaway; his account is settled. The general will probably have him shot. That depends on the mood he is in. It is a pity. Bring him here, my children.

One of you stay with us; the rest go as quickly as possible."

Mahmoud Bey was brought into the room next to the balcony. A soldier armed with a musket stationed himself on the threshold.

The prisoner was almost a giant, thickset and broad-shouldered. He appeared to be over fifty. His eyes had a melancholy expression under their bristling grey eyebrows; his ragged moustache, also grey, was constantly twitching; his feet were bound round with rags, his cloak was torn and had a blood-stain on one shoulder.

"What is this blood?"

"Kyriloff tickled him up a little with his bayonet behind the bush, Colonel."

"Why?"

"Because, Colonel, it was in vain that we called to him in good Russian, 'Come out, shaven-pate!' He did not listen to us, but only waved his hands. Kyriloff was annoyed, and p.r.i.c.ked him a little. Then he left his bush. To tell the truth, we wanted to finish him on the spot, but Lieutenant Va.s.silieff told us to bring him here."

"Somione! give him a chair."

The prisoner sat down, after placing his hand on his heart, his mouth, and his head successively. His expression was still melancholy; he evidently did not expect anything pleasant from his new masters. His large nose drooped over his ragged moustaches, his head was sunk between his shoulders.

II. THE EXAMINATION

Having, in the course of his military career, served in the regiment on the frontier of the Caucasus, the Major had picked up a little Turkish.

So they dispensed with an interpreter.

"I think we have met before?" he said to the prisoner. "You are Colonel Mahmoud Bey?"

The Turk lowered his head, and a.s.sumed an att.i.tude of utter prostration.

"Perhaps there is a mistake, and I am taking you for some one else?"

added the Major.

"I never lie!" said the prisoner, rising. "I escaped here from Kazanlik and have been recaptured by your soldiers. One cannot go far on foot!"

he added, smiling sadly, "especially when one is, like myself, wounded in the head and the leg. And I have been again wounded in the shoulder."

"You should know that according to the usages of war," answered the Major, who attempted, but in vain, to speak in an official tone.

"It is superfluous to tell me that. The power is on your side. You are the victors; tell them to kill me. I knew perfectly well the risk I ran when last night I escaped from the house of the officer in whose charge I was. I have played, I have lost, and I must die."

The Major, touched by the prisoner's tone, began to speak to him more gently.

"Were you uncomfortable where you lodged?"

"No."

"Did they treat you well?"

"The officer with whom I lodged is a very generous man. He obliged me to take his bed; he gave me food and drink; he treated me like a brother not like an enemy."

"But were you afraid of being ill-treated in Russia?"

"No. I know that the Russians always treat their prisoners well."

"In that case, why did you run away?"

"What is that to you? Here I am in your hands; do your duty. But be quick! be quick!"

Something very like a choked-down sob contracted the throat of the old Turk, and again his head sank.

"What did you hope to get by escaping? The Turks are retreating everywhere, famine reigns among you, and the population has fled. Would you not have done better to have waited? The war will soon be over, and you would have been able to go home to your own house."

"Home to my own house? Where is that?"

"I don't understand you."

"Well, you soon will. I know how things are going on and have no illusions. An order has recently come from Constantinople telling people to emigrate to Asia Minor. Every one will go; my family with the rest.

Where will they go? How am I to find them again? Bah! Don't let us talk about it; it is useless. I did what I thought was my duty; do your own.

No one escapes death. That which is to happen, will happen; it is written. No one lives beyond the limit fixed by destiny. What I did was certainly not for myself...."

The prisoner's voice broke again, and he made a despairing gesture.