My costume was of the most sorry description; but a few discrepancies were made up by Vladimir Dahl, who, among other things, presented me with a full uniform, silver epaulettes and all, of the Tambrov infantry. French is not so much spoken in Russia as people in Britain suppose; yet, luckily for me, General Baur and Anitchoff could speak it fluently. Before proceeding to the General’s I asked— "Can you inform me, Captain Anitchoff, if parole is to be accepted?" "I cannot say, but rather think not," he replied, with hesitation. "The deuce!" I exclaimed, haughtily; "then I shall escape, if I can." "Pray don’t think of it," said he, earnestly. "Why?" I demanded, with intense chagrin. "We have rather a summary mode of dealing with prisoners who attempt to escape. So be wary, my friend." "Indeed, summary. How?" "We don’t always keep them on our hands," said he, with a smile that was grimly significant, while he played with the gold tassels of his hussar busby. "Well, ’twere better to be shot than kept lingering here." "Oh, you won’t be kept here, my friend." "Where then?" "In a few days you will probably be sent with a convoy of sick and wounded by the way of Perecop and the desert plains towards Yekaterinoslav." "I shall escape by the way," said I, doggedly. "I repeat, my friend, don’t think of it, for Trebitski, who will command, does not stand on trifles; and yet," he added, with a smile, "there are two persons who seldom fail in what they attempt—a prisoner and a lover." "Why?" "Stendahl, a Russian author, says, ’The lover thinks oftener of obtaining his mistress than the husband does of guarding his wife; the prisoner thinks oftener of escaping from his prison than the gaoler does of keeping him safe within its walls. Therefore, the lover and the prisoner should succeed.’ You see," he continued, laughing, "we have some authors in snowy Russia, whatever you Britons may think to the contrary. But here is the general." Passing through the officers of the 45th, who all made way for us, I was ushered into the presence of General Baur, the grim soldier, who was related to the hero of Beverley’s interesting anecdote—Karlovitch Baur, son of Karl, the brother of Michel, the old miller of Husum. He received me with studious politeness, though he could not help smiling at my Tambrov uniform. His left arm was in a sling, and, as he shook hands with me, I felt that he had but two right fingers remaining. A Turkish sabre had shorn him of the rest at Kalafat, on the Danube, in the year before.