The young man looked with respect at the armless officer⁠—whose emaciated face unexpectedly lit up with a smile⁠—and became silently absorbed in making his tea. And, really, the face, the attitude, and especially the empty sleeve of the officer, expressed a kind of calm indifference, that seemed to reply to every word and action: “All this is excellent, all this I know, and all this I can do if I only wish to.”

“Well, and how shall we decide it?” the young officer began again, turning to his comrade in the Caucasian coat. “Shall we stay the night here, or go on with our own horse?”

His comrade decided to stay.

“Just fancy, Captain,” continued he who was making the tea, addressing the one-armed officer and handing him a knife he had dropped, “we were told that horses were awfully dear in Sevastopol, so we two bought one together in Simferópol.”

“I expect they made you pay a stiff price.”