“I’ve brought him, y’r honour,” answered Nikolayev’s bass voice.
Inside the hut Bolhov was sitting on a dry mantle, with unbuttoned coat and no cap. A samovar stood boiling by his side, and on a drum were light refreshments. A bayonet holding a candle was stuck into the ground.
“What do you think of it?” he asked, looking proudly round his cosy establishment. It really was so nice inside the hut that at tea I quite forgot the damp, the darkness, and Velenchuk’s wound. We talked of Moscow, and of things that had not the least relation to the war or to the Caucasus.
After a moment of silence, such as sometimes occurs in the most animated conversation, Bolhov looked at me with a smile.
“I think our conversation this morning struck you as being very strange,” he said.
“No, why do you think so? It only seemed to me that you were too frank; there are things which we all know, but which should never be mentioned.”
“Why not? If there were the least possibility of changing this life for the lowest and poorest without danger and without service, I should not hesitate a moment.”
“Then why don’t you return to Russia?” I asked.
“Why?” he repeated. “Oh, I have thought about that long ago. I can’t return to Russia now until I have the Ann and Vladimir orders: an Ann round my neck, and the rank of major, as I planned when I came here.”
“Why?—if, as you say, you feel unfit for the service here.”