o so. He only smiled at my request.

I could not but admire him, for it was the very smile which I should
have myself smiled had I been in his position.

"At least," said I, "tell us the name of this village."

"It is Dobrova."

"And that is Minsk over yonder, I suppose."

"Yes, that is Minsk."

"Then we shall go to the village and we shall very soon find some one
who will translate this despatch."

So we rode onward together, a trooper with his carbine unslung on either
side of our prisoner. The village was but a little place, and I set a
guard at the ends of the single street, so that no one could escape from
it. It was necessary to call a halt and to find some food for the men
and horses, since they had travelled all night and had a long journey
still before them.

There was one large stone house in the centre of the village, and to
this I rode. It was the house of the priest--a snuffy and ill-favoured
old man who had not a civil answer to any of our questions. An uglier
fellow I never met, but, my faith, it was very different with his only
daughter, who kept house for him. She was a brunette, a rare thing in
Russia, with creamy skin, raven hair, and a pair of the most glorious
dark eyes that ever kindled at the sight of a Hussar. From the first
glance I saw that she was mine. It was no time for love-making when
a soldier's duty had to be done, but still, as I took the simple meal
which they laid before me, I chatted lightly with the lady, and we were
the best of friends before an hour had passed. Sophie was her first
name, her second I never knew. I taught her to call me Etienne, and I
tried to cheer her up, for her sweet face was sad and there were tears
in her beautiful dark eyes. I pressed her to tell me what it was which
was grieving her.

"How can I be otherwise," said she, speaking French with a most adorable
lisp, "when one of my poor countrymen is a prisoner in your hands? I saw
him between two of your Hussars as you rode into the village."

"It is the fortune of war," said I. "His turn to-day; mine, perhaps,
to-morrow."

"But consider, Monsieur--" said she.

"Etienne," said I.

"Oh, Monsieur----"

"Etienne," said I.

"Well, then," she cried, beautifully flushed and desperate, "consider,
Etienne, that this young officer will be taken back to your army and
will be starved or frozen, for if, as I hear, your own soldiers have a
hard march, what will be the lot of a prisoner?"

I shrugged m