poor fellows."

Crawling from beneath the cart, he knelt beside the Cossack into whose
body he had thrust the bayonet. The poor fellow was evidently at his
last gasp, but hearing Phil's voice he opened his eyes, and gazed
wonderingly at him. Then, as he recognised him, he feebly raised his
hand.

A feeling of terrible grief and dismay surged through Phil's heart, for
he was a lad who would sooner have lost his own life than taken that of
another in cold blood. And yet, though this had been done in war-time,
and whilst battling for life and liberty, a pang of regret oppressed
him, and he felt only as a young man can feel who, for the first time in
his existence, has been the cause of suffering and death to another.

He took the hand of the dying man, and gently pressed it.

"Are you in great pain, my poor fellow?" he whispered.

The wounded Russian shook his head, and answered something. Phil placed
his ear close to his mouth and listened.

"We were enemies," the Cossack gasped, "bitter enemies, for you have
invaded our country. But now we are friends, friends until death. Hold
my hand, brother, and the Virgin will bless you. Feel round my neck
when I am gone, and you will find a cross. Take--take it for yourself,
and when you glance at it think sometimes of him who died for his
beloved Czar and country."

"I will, I will!" whispered Phil, with a groan of anguish.

"I see my old peasant home," went on the dying Cossack in a voice that
was scarcely audible. "Ah, I see it better than ever--ever before. My
poor mother!--thank God she has long gone to her rest!--and my brother.
The stream in front, and the trees all round. Hold me, Englishman!
Everything is dancing and blurred before my eyes. I--I am dying.
Good-bye! Think some--sometimes of the man who died for his country."

The poor fellow, who had struggled into a sitting position, fell back,
and Phil thought that he was dead. But he opened his eyes again,
smiled, and with a sigh his spirit fled.

Deeply impressed, Phil knelt by his side and offered up a short prayer.
Then he rose to his feet, and, climbing on to the cart, looked round.

Phit! A bullet struck the corner of one of the ammunition-boxes, and,
glancing off, buried itself in the heel of his boot.

"That's a close one again, Phil, old boy," laughed Tony, who seemed to
enjoy the risk of being shot. "It's that fellow over there. He's just
below the hill, and you can only see him by