After making his report to Lord Raglan and General Airey, Travers rode to Colonel Beverley, who occupied a Tartar’s cottage near the river side. There he found several of ours, including Fred Wilford, old M’Goldrick, the paymaster, and Studhome, making a hearty repast on some well-cooked wild boar, with caviare, biscuits, and plenty of champagne, which had been found in the broken-down carriage of General Kiriakoff, whose crest and initials were painted on the lid of his canteen, which contained a tiny dinner service for four, but all of Dresden china. "Gentlemen," exclaimed Beverley, starting to his feet, as Travers, Berkeley, and young Scarlett entered, "I am sorry to see you return alone. Where is our friend Norcliff?" "Gone to the—aw—devil by the down train, probably," muttered Berkeley, whose teeth chattered as he drained a glass of champagne. "He has fallen into the enemy’s hands," said Captain Travers; "a rescue was impossible, as we knew not the extent of the ambush into which we fell. I saw him riding after us, with Berkeley——" "Aw—yes, colonel—we were covering the rear of the squadron, in fact," interrupted that personage. "Suddenly there was heard a single shot, and on looking back, I saw Berkeley galloping on alone——" "Alone!" "And poor Norcliff in the hands of the Russians, who were cutting him to pieces apparently." "His horse had been shot under him?" said the colonel. "Yes—but—aw—not by the Russians," said Berkeley. "By whom, then?" asked the colonel, sharply. "By himself," was the unhesitating response. "Himself?" "Absurd!" "Impossible!" exclaimed his hearers, in succession. "It is neither absurd nor impossible. The horse was killed by a pistol-shot, and he fell into the power of the Russians." "Do you mean to say," asked the colonel, slowly, after a very ominous and unpleasant pause, during which Berkeley’s paleness increased, and he tugged his moustache with his effeminate, girlish-like fingers, feeling evidently the loss of a toothpick, with which, like other fops, he soothed his leisure moments; "do you mean to say that this event was not accident, but design?" "Can’t tell, ’pon my life—aw—haw—would rather not say anything about it—it was doocid odd, anyway," drawled Berkeley, applying himself to the champagne again. "Mr. Berkeley, I must insist upon your explaining." "Can’t say, I repeat—his pistol exploded—the bullet went through his horse’s head——" "Killing it on the spot?" "Of course—aw—of course." "What could be his reason——" "Perhaps he thought—aw—it safer work to fall quietly into the hands of the Russians thus than to ride back under their fusilade." "Are you aware, Mr. Berkeley," said the colonel, with increasing gravity, while all present exchanged some very peculiar glances, "that this is tantamount to branding our friend with cowardice?"