Baur was every way a man of a severely impressive presence and aspect. He had an enormous white moustache, the long, snaky curls of which floated almost over each of his large silver epaulettes. His forehead was high, massive and stern; his hair, shorn short, was rough and grizly. His dark eyes were keen, bold, and inquiring at times; but at others they wore a deep, sombre and melancholy expression, as if he was always thinking of a world beyond the present—to be looking into it, in fact—and this was not to be wondered at when we consider that Karlovitch Baur was the hero of one of the most remarkable episodes ever committed to paper. His manner was that of one who is prompt and ready alike in thought and action, and yet who never unsaid or undid anything. Over his grass-green and silver-laced uniform, he wore a loose, wide _souba_, or fur coat with sleeves, for service, and this he cast aside when the trumpets announced that dinner was served; and then, among many other orders that glittered on his warlike breast, I saw that of St. Andrew, which was founded in 1699 by Peter the Great, and is only bestowed on crowned heads and officers of the highest rank. It reminded me much of our own Order of the Thistle, being a blue enamelled saltire; but on the reverse was a Muscovite eagle, with the initials "S.A.P.R." (_Sanctus Andreas, Patronus Russiæ_). At the table I was seated between the general and his chief aide-de-camp, Anitchoff, both of whom conversed with me in French. "How did it come to pass that you were taken prisoner?" asked the former. "My horse was shot under me." "Near the Belbeck?" "Yes," said I, blushing like a school-girl, as I could not, for the soul of me, say that a British officer had degraded his epaulettes by the perfidy of which Berkeley had been guilty. "Ah! unlucky; but such things will happen. Your troops and the French, with the Turkish dogs, are now almost in front of Sebastopol." "Indeed!" said I, with a joy which I could not conceal. "You think, no doubt, to take it under our moustaches, or, as you Britons say, under our noses; but you won’t," he added with a grave smile. "St. Sergius has ordained it otherwise, and Todleben, the wary old Courlander, is busy fortifying it. His sappers are at work day and night." "Pho! don’t talk of Sebastopol, general," said his aide-de-camp, laughing. "Our feeding there was so bad that I felt inclined to try whether the Allies fared better than we did; but after the Alma, I thought that the less I considered the matter the better." "Ah, that day at Alma played the deuce with many a family circle in Sebastopol," said Baur, twisting his moustache angrily. "Yes," added Anitchoff; "many a widow is there now, weeping for the dear defunct with one eye, and ogling his successor with the other." At this jest a dark frown gathered on the long, stern visage of Baur.