ned corpse
of his rider, with the foot entangled in the stirrup. "Hit--killed!" was
shouted from all the trenches; and the young artillery officer, taking
off his cap, piously crossed himself, and with a joyous face jumped down
from the battery to seize the prey which he had earned. He soon
succeeded in catching by the reins the horse of the slain Tcherkess, for
he was dragging the body sideways on the ground. The unfortunate man had
his arm torn off close to the shoulder; but he still breathed, groaned,
and struggled. Pity touched the good-natured youth: he called some
soldiers, and ordered them to carry the wounded man carefully into the
trench, sent for the surgeon, and had the operation performed before his
eyes. At night, when all was quiet, the artilleryman sat by the side of
his dying prisoner, and watched him with interest by the dim light of
the lantern. The serpent-marks of sorrow, graven on his cheek by tears,
the wrinkles on his forehead, dug, not by years but passions, and bloody
scratches, disfigured his handsome face; and in it was painted something
more torturing than pain, more terrible than death. The artilleryman
could not restrain an involuntary shudder. The prisoner sighed heavily,
and having, with difficulty, raised his hand to his forehead, opened his
heavy eyelids, muttering to himself in unintelligible sounds,
unconnected words.... "Blood," he cried, examining his hand ... "always
blood! why have they put _his_ bloody shirt upon me? Already, without
that, I swim in blood.... Why do I not drown in it?... How cold the
blood is to-day!... Once it used to scald me, and this is no better! In
the world it is stifling, in the gave so cold.... 'Tis dreadful to be a
corpse. Fool that I am, I sought death. O, let me live but for one
little day--one little hour, to live!..."

"What? Why have I hidden another in the grave, _whisperest thou_? Learn
thyself what it is to die!..." A convulsive paroxysm interrupted his
raving, an unspeakably dreadful groan burst from the sufferer, and he
fell into a painful lethargy, in which the soul lives only to suffer.

The artilleryman, touched to the very bottom of his heart, raised the
head of the miserable being, sprinkled his face with cold water, and
rubbed his temples with spirits of wine, in order to bring him to
himself. Slowly he opened his eyes, shook his head several times, as if
to shake the mist from his eyelashes, and steadfastly directed his gaze
on the fac