Bob stood with his hands in his pockets looking at his tempter. "They may be all that you say, though, as far as the war has gone, it scarcely becomes a Russian to say it; but you, sir, ought to know perfectly well that, whatever they may be, it is impossible for me to betray them. I can’t say any more; and I’d really be obliged to you if you’d drop the subject. Your general has decided that I’m a spy. I’m not a spy, but I can say nothing more to convince him. He has made up his mind, and so have I. You said to-morrow morning?" The officer looked at Bob with mingled annoyance and admiration. "What folly!" he exclaimed. "I can’t but admire your constancy, but I’m sorry for you. Yes, to-morrow morning, at dawn. You needn’t imagine you’ll be let off, the general is determined." "Very well." "You can tell the man who brings you food if you change your mind." "I will—if I do!" The officer turned away. As he was going out at the door, Bob took a step forward, and spoke, with a little hesitation, and in a different tone. "One moment. Could you do me a favour?" "What is that?" asked the Russian quickly. "Send me pencil and paper and an envelope. I have some friends at home—my father and mother—I should like—" "I understand. You shall have the writing materials." "And you will see that the letter is sent off?" "Yes, yes; but it will not be necessary. Think over it." And he hurried away. It was some time before Bob touched the food that had been brought to him. He was tired of waiting for the end. He longed for life; yet if he was to die, he wished it over and done with; the attempt to overcome his determination, the appeal to his self-interest against his honour, wearied and troubled him. For a time he tramped restlessly up and down, thinking gravely; then, catching sight of the food, on the stone slab, he reflected that he could meet his fate better fed than fasting, and he set-to with a will upon the ample supply of beef and black bread and tea, which he had asked for instead of vodka. After a while, however, he again fell into a fit of abstraction; he ate mechanically, musing on many things. Breaking one of the hard-crusted loaves, he saw a glitter like that of a golden coin buried in the bread. For a moment his curiosity overcame the gloom into which his long pondering had thrown him. He picked the bread away from the strange intruder, and discovered that what he had taken for a coin was the end of an empty cartridge-case. "How did it get there?" he wondered, holding the case before him. He remembered how puzzled King George had been to account for the presence of the apple in the dumpling, and laughed aloud. "No doubt about the bakery this bread came from," he thought. "Well, better a cartridge-case than a beetle."