The candles
flared, the ladies from "Carmen" wavered on the marble steps, the
high cracked voice of the soldier continued its song. I stood there
with Trenchard and Andrey Vassilievitch. Then we turned away.

"We're not wanted to-night," I said. "We'd better get out of the way
and sleep somewhere. There'll be plenty to do to-morrow!" Little
Andrey Vassilievitch, whom during the retreat I had entirely
forgotten, looked very pathetic. He was dusty and dirty and hated his
discomfort. He did not know where to go and was in everybody's way.
Nikitin was immensely busy and had no time to waste on his friend.
Poor Andrey was tired and terribly depressed.

"What I say is," he confided to us in a voice that trembled a little,
"that we are not to despair. We have to retreat to-day, but who knows
what will happen to-morrow? Every one is aware that Russia is a
glorious country and has endless resources. Well then.... What I say
is ..."; an officer bundled into him, apologised but quite obviously
cursed him for being in the way.

"Come along," said Trenchard, putting his arm on Andrey
Vassilievitch's sleeve. "We'll find somewhere to sleep. Of course
we're not in despair. Why should we be? You'll feel better to-morrow."

They departed, and as they went I wondered at this new side in
Trenchard's character. He seemed strong, practical, and almost
cheerful. I, knowing his disaster, was puzzled. My lame leg was
hurting me to-night. I found a corner to lie down in, rolled myself in
my greatcoat and passed through a strange succession of fantastic
dreams in which Trenchard, Marie Ivanovna, Nikitin, and Semyonov all
figured. Behind them I seemed to hear some voice crying: "I've got you
all!... I've got you all!... You're caught!... You're caught!...
You're caught!"

On the following day there happened to Trenchard the thing that he had
dreaded. Writing of it now I cannot disentangle it from the
circumstances and surroundings of his account of it to me. He was
looking back then, when he spoke to me, to something that seemed
almost fantastic in its ironical reality. Every word of that
conversation he afterwards recalled to himself again and again. As to
Marie Ivanovna I think that he never even began to understand her;
that he should believe in her was a different matter from his
understanding her. That he should worship her was a tribute both to
his inexperience and to his sentiment. But his relation to her and to
this whole adventure