lude, "Therefore I am most sorry to say there was an
accident, which would have been, reparable if he had apologized to our
colonel, whom he had insulted."

Another growl, which the colonel tried to beat down. The mess was in
no mood to weigh insults to Russian colonels just then.

"He does not remember, but I think that there was an accident, and so
he was not exchanged among the prisoners, but he was sent to another
place--how do you say?--the country. _So_, he says, he came here. He
does not know how he came. Eh? He _was_ at Chepany[18]"--the man
caught the word, nodded, and shivered--"at Zhigansk[19] and
Irkutsk[20]. I cannot understand how he escaped. He says, too, that he
was in the forests for many years, but how many years he has
forgotten--that with many things. It was an accident; done because he
did not apologise to our colonel. Ah!"

Instead of echoing Dirkovitch's sigh of regret, it is sad to record
that the White Hussars livelily exhibited unchristian delight and
other emotions, hardly restrained by their sense of hospitality.
Holmer flung the frayed and yellow regimental rolls on the table, and
the men flung themselves atop of these.

"Steady! Fifty-six--fifty-five--fifty-four," said Holmer. "Here we
are. 'Lieutenant Austin Limmason--_missing_.' That was before
Sebastopol[21]. What an infernal shame! Insulted one of their
colonels, and was quietly shipped off. Thirty years of his life wiped
out."

"But he never apologized. Said he'd see him----first," chorussed the
mess.

"Poor devil! I suppose he never had the chance afterward. How did he
come here?" said the colonel.

The dingy heap in the chair could give no answer.

"Do you know who you are?"

It laughed weakly.

"Do you know that you are Limmason--Lieutenant Limmason, of the White
Hussars?"

Swift as a shot came the answer, in a slightly surprised tone, "Yes,
I'm Limmason, of course." The light died out in his eyes, and he
collapsed afresh, watching every motion of Dirkovitch with terror. A
flight from Siberia may fix a few elementary facts in the mind, but it
does not lead to continuity of thought. The man could not explain how,
like a homing pigeon, he had found his way to his own old mess again.
Of what he had suffered or seen he knew nothing. He cringed before
Dirkovitch as instinctively as he had pressed the spring of the
candlestick, sought the picture of the drum-horse, and answered to the
Queen's toast. The rest was a blank th