“An assault!” said the naval officer, turning pale and letting the seaman look through the telescope.

Cossacks galloped along the road, some officers rode by, the Commander-in-Chief passed in a carriage with his suite. Every face showed painful excitement and expectation.

“It’s impossible they can have taken it,” said the mounted officer.

“By God, a standard!⁠ ⁠… Look! look!” said the other, panting, and walked away from the telescope: “A French standard on the Maláhof!”

“It can’t be!”

The elder Kozeltsóf, who had during the preceding night won back his money and then again before morning lost everything, including the gold pieces sewn in his cuff, was lying in a heavy, unhealthy, but sound sleep in the Defensive Barracks of the Fifth Bastion, when a fateful cry arose, repeated by many voices⁠—