“I don’t mind if I do, Vasíly Miháylovitch.”

Volódya was struck by the grandeur of the commissary officer, his offhand manner, and the respect with which his brother addressed him.

“I expect this is one of their best officers, whom they all respect⁠—probably simple-minded, but hospitable and brave,” he thought as he sat down modestly and shyly on the sofa.

“Then where is our regiment stationed?” shouted the elder brother across to the tent.

“What?”

The question was repeated.

“Seifert was here this morning: he says the regiment has gone over to the Fifth Bastion.”

“Is that certain?”