rs?'

Swiftly 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 the man
collapsed, watching every motion of Dirkovitch with terror. A flight
from Siberia may fix a few elementary facts in the mind, but it does
not seem to 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
toast of the Queen. The rest was a blank that 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 in us Slav who has done
nothing, _him_ I believe. Seventy--how much--millions peoples that
have done nothing--not one thing. Posh! 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 a-way!' He waved his hand imperiously, and
pointed to the man. 'You see him. He is no 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 is gone,
or'--he pointed to the great coffin-shadow on the ceiling, and
muttering, 'Seventy millions--get a-way, you old peoples,' fell
asleep.

'Sweet, and to the point,' said little Mildred. 'What's the use of
getting wroth? Let's make this 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 wo