ping the hard snow with its hoofs. The
Cossack who was riding it reversed his torch, and clouds of black smoke,
rising heavily, surrounded his arm.

"Where are you going like that?"

"To the advance-posts, Colonel."

"Why?"

"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 butt-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 Vassilieff 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 snatched 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 h