it. I'll do you the
justice, Mr., of saying you've worked admirably here. I wouldn't have
believed it of you. Let us both of us drop our romantic fancies. We've
no time to spare." Then, turning at the door, he ended: "And you
needn't hate me so badly, you know. She cared for you in a way that
she never gave _me_. Perhaps, after all, in the end, you will win--"

He gave me one last word:

"All the same I don't give her up to you," he said.

When I came downstairs again it was to find confusion and noise. In
the first place little Andrey Vassilievitch was quarrelling loudly
with Nikitin. He was speaking Russian very fast and I did not discover
his complaint. There was something comic in the sight of his small
body towering to a perfect tempest of rage, his plump hands
gesticulating and always his eyes, anxious and self-important, doing
their best to look after his dignity. Nikitin explained to me that he
had been urging Andrey Vassilievitch to return to Mittoevo with the
wagons. "There's no need," he said, "for us all to stay. It's only
taking unnecessary risks--and somebody should take charge of the
wagons."

"There's Feodor Constantinovitch," said Andrey, naming a feldscher and
stammering in his rage. "He's re-responsible enough." Then, seeing
that he was creating something of a scene, he relapsed into a would-be
dignified sulkiness, finally said he would not go, and strutted away.

There were many other disturbances, men coming and going, one of the
battery officers appearing for a moment dirty and dishevelled, and
always the wounded drowsy or in delirium, watching with dull eyes the
evening shadows, talking excitedly in their sleep. Semyonov called me
to help in the operating room. Within the next two hours he had
carried out two amputations with admirable cool composure. During the
second one, when the man's arm tumbled off into the basin and lay
there amongst the filthy rags with the dirty white fingers curved,
their nails dead and grey, I suddenly felt violently sick.

A sanitar took my place and I went out into the cool of the forest,
where a silver pattern of stars swung now above the branches and a
full moon, red and cold, was rising beyond the hill. After a time I
felt better and, finding that I was not needed for a time, I wrote
this diary.

_Tuesday, August 17th._ It is just six o'clock--a most lovely evening.
Strangely enough everything is utterly quiet--not a sound anywhere.
You might fancy yourse