“It would be better to have it properly bandaged, your honour,” said Ignátyef. “It’s only the heat of the moment makes it seem nothing; mind it don’t get worse, and just see what warm work it is here.⁠ ⁠… Really, your honour⁠—”

Miháylof stood for a moment undecided, and would probably have followed Ignátyef’s advice had he not reflected how many severely wounded there must be at the Ambulance Station. “Perhaps the doctors will smile at my scratch,” thought the Lieutenant-Captain, and in spite of the drummer’s arguments he returned to his company.

“And where is Staff-Officer Praskoúhin, who was with me?” he asked, when he met the Ensign who was leading the company.

“I don’t know; killed, I think,” replied the Ensign unwillingly.

“Killed? or wounded? How is it you don’t know? wasn’t he going with us? And why did you not bring him away?”

“How could we under such a fire?”