at the dreaded Russian tongue
could only in part remove. His head bowed on his breast, and he
giggled and cowered alternately.

The devil that lived in the brandy prompted Dirkovitch at this
extremely inopportune moment to make a speech. He rose, swaying
slightly, gripped the table edge, while his eyes glowed like opals,
and began:--"Fellow-soldiers glorious--true friends and hospitables.
It was an accident, and deplorable--most deplorable." Here he smiled
sweetly all round the mess. "But you will think of this little, little
thing. So little, is it not? The czar! Posh! I slap my fingers--I snap
my fingers at him. Do I believe in him? No! But the Slav who has done
nothing, _him_ I believe. Seventy--how much?--millions that have done
nothing--not one thing. Napoleon was an episode." He banged a hand on
the table. "Hear you, old peoples, we have done nothing in the
world--out here. All our work is to do: and it shall be done, old
peoples. Get away!" He waved his hand imperiously, and pointed to the
man. "You see him. He is not good to see. He was just one little--oh,
so little--accident, that no one remembered. Now he is _That_. So will
you be, brother-soldiers so brave--so will you be. But you will never
come back. You will all go where he has gone, or"--he pointed to the
great coffin shadow on the ceiling, and muttering, "Seventy
millions--get away, you old people," fell asleep.

"Sweet, and to the point," said Little Mildred. "What's the use of
getting wroth? Let's make the poor devil comfortable."

But that was a matter suddenly and swiftly taken from the loving hands
of the White Hussars. The lieutenant had returned only to go away
again three days later, when the wail of the "Dead March" and the
tramp of the squadrons told the wondering station, that saw no gap in
the table, an officer of the regiment had resigned his new-found
commission.

And Dirkovitch--bland, supple, and always genial--went away too by a
night train. Little Mildred and another saw him off, for he was the
guest of the mess, and even had he smitten the colonel with the open
hand the law of the mess allowed no relaxation of hospitality.

"Good-by, Dirkovitch, and a pleasant journey," said Little Mildred.

"_Au revoir[22]_ my true friends," said the Russian.

"Indeed! But we thought you were going home?"

"Yes; but I will come again. My friends, is that road shut?" He
pointed to where the north star burned over the Khyber Pass.

"By Jove!