“That I don’t know; you will see for yourselves,” replied Kaloúgin, with a mysterious smile.

“And my commander is at the bastion, so I suppose I must go too,” said Praskoúhin, buckling on his sabre.

No one replied; it was his business to know whether he had to go or not.

Praskoúhin and Nefyórdof left, to go to their appointed posts.

“Goodbye, gentlemen. Au revoir! We’ll meet again before the night is over,” shouted Kaloúgin from the window, as Praskoúhin and Nefyórdof, stooping in their Cossack saddles, trotted past. The tramp of their Cossack horses soon died away in the dark street.