Pierre had not eaten all day and the smell of the potatoes seemed extremely pleasant to him. He thanked the soldier and began to eat.
“Well, are they all right?” said the soldier with a smile. “You should do like this.”
He took a potato, drew out his clasp knife, cut the potato into two equal halves on the palm of his hand, sprinkled some salt on it from the rag, and handed it to Pierre.
“The potatoes are grand!” he said once more. “Eat some like that!”
Pierre thought he had never eaten anything that tasted better.
“Oh, I’m all right,” said he, “but why did they shoot those poor fellows? The last one was hardly twenty.”
“ Tss , tt … !” said the little man. “Ah, what a sin … what a sin!” he added quickly, and as if his words were always waiting ready in his mouth and flew out involuntarily he went on: “How was it, sir, that you stayed in Moscow?”
“I didn’t think they would come so soon. I stayed accidentally,” replied Pierre.
“And how did they arrest you, dear lad? At your house?”
“No, I went to look at the fire, and they arrested me there, and tried me as an incendiary.”
“Where there’s law there’s injustice,” put in the little man.
“And have you been here long?” Pierre asked as he munched the last of the potato.
“I? It was last Sunday they took me, out of a hospital in Moscow.”