The bottle of porter had been emptied, and the conversation had continued for some time in the same strain, when the flap of the tent opened, and out stepped a rather short, fresh-looking man in a blue dressing-gown with tassels, and a cap with a red band and a cockade. He came twisting his little black moustaches and looking somewhere in the direction of one of the carpets, and answered the greetings of the officers with a scarcely perceptible movement of his shoulders.

“I think I’ll also have a glass,” he said, sitting down to the table.

“Is it from Petersburg you’ve come, young man?” he remarked, addressing Volódya in a friendly manner.

“Yes, sir, and I’m going to Sevastopol.”

“At your own request?”

“Yes, sir.”