"But who ... who has done that?" asks the Major's little girl, a moment before flushed with sleep, becoming suddenly pale. "Who has killed him?" asks the little boy of six with the black eye. The youngest of the children is holding him by the shirt-sleeve. The Turk's children, the black-eyed brats of a tawny tint, turn towards the Major and point at him. "It is he who has killed our father. Yes, it is he. He has cast us on the street and reduced us to poverty and helplessness." The Major tries to speak or cry. His heart is nearly bursting with agony; his tongue feels paralysed; his voice is choked in his throat. This father sees his children turn from him with horror. The youngest even lifts her little hand as though to shield herself. He tries to approach her, but she runs away, her features convulsed with terror. She points to his hands and cries, "Blood! Blood!" The Major looks at his hands; the little girl is right; they are covered with blood. Then he tries to speak, but he cannot articulate a word; he feels as though some one had seized him by the throat, and were trying to choke him. He struggles desperately, makes a final effort and ... awakes. Throwing away the cloak which covers him, he rises. The Turk was not asleep; he was sitting at table with the Colonel. "Well, Major, it seems to me that you have had a good sleep for the New Year." "Yes ... and I have had a dream." "You too?" said the Colonel in an embarrassed tone. "Why do you say, 'You too'?" "Yes. You can't imagine what absurd dreams I have been having. I had never believed myself so sentimental." "Had your dream anything to do with the prisoner?" "Naturally. You remember my Volodia?" "A curious question, as I am his godfather." "Indeed you are right. My head is decidedly queer. Well, I have had that rascal at my heels the whole night. He insisted obstinately that I should give the Turk up to him. 'Why?' I asked. And he answered, 'He also has little Volodia's, and I will let him free to go and find them.' Yet, my friend, I don't think we drank more than usual last night." "Certainly not." The Major looked fixedly at the Colonel. "But think what I have dreamt; it is much more serious." "Not really." "Yes, indeed." The Major related his dream. "We are becoming superstitious," said the Colonel. "Come what will, we must make up our minds. I will send this Turk to the General as quickly as possible. May God look after him! The General must decide his fate. If we keep him here, we shall end by going mad." "In that case I have a favour to ask of you." "What is it?" "I wish to go myself to the General." "You?" "Yes; allow me to conduct Mahmoud Bey to him." The Colonel gave a side-glance in order to preserve a serious expression, and finally said, without looking at the Major: "There is nothing against it. But you will need a horse." "It is easy to find one. Have we not taken enough from the Turks?"