Tanaroff was hailed with undisguised curiosity. He felt that he was the hero of the hour as he began to give a detailed account of the whole incident. In his narrow black eyes there was a look of hatred for the friend who had always been his superior. He thought of the money incident, and of Sarudine’s condescending attitude towards him, and he revenged himself for past slights by a minute description of his comrade’s defeat. Meanwhile, forsaken and alone, Sarudine lay there upon his couch. His soldier-servant, who had learnt the whole truth elsewhere, moved noiselessly about, looking sad and anxious as before. He set the tea- things ready, fetched some wine, and drove the dog out of the room as it leaped about for joy at the sight of its master. After a while the man came back on tiptoe. “Your Excellency had better have a little wine,” he whispered. “Eh? What?” exclaimed Sarudine, opening his eyes and shutting them again instantly. In a tone which he thought severe, but which was really piteous, he could just move his swollen lips sufficiently to say: “Bring me the looking-glass.” The servant sighed, brought the mirror, and held a candle close to it. “Why does he want to look at himself?” he thought. When Sarudine looked in the glass he uttered an involuntary cry. In the dark mirror a terribly disfigured face confronted him. One side of it was black and blue, his eye was swollen, and his moustache stuck out like bristles on his puffy check. “Here! Take it away!” murmured Sarudine, and he sobbed hysterically. “Some water!” “Your Excellency mustn’t take it so to heart. You’ll soon be all right again,” said the kindly soldier, as he proffered water in a sticky glass which smelt of tea. Sarudine could not drink; his teeth rattled helplessly against the rim of the glass, and the water was spilt over his coat. “Go away!” he feebly moaned. His servant, so he thought, was the only man in the world who sympathized with him, yet that kindlier feeling towards him was speedily extinguished by the intolerable consciousness that his serving-man had cause to pity him. Almost in tears, the soldier blinked his eyes and, going out, sat down on the steps leading to the garden. Fawning upon him, the dog thrust its pretty nose against his knee and looked up at him gravely with dark, questioning eyes. He gently stroked its soft, wavy coat. Overhead shone the silent stars. A sense of fear came over him, as the presage of some great, inevitable mischance. “Life’s a sad thing!” he thought bitterly, remembering for a moment his own native village. Sarudine turned hastily over on the sofa and lay motionless, without noticing that the compress, now grown warm, had slipped off his face. “Now all is at an end!” he murmured hysterically, “What is at an end? Everything! My whole life—done for! Why? Because I’ve been insulted— struck like a dog! My face struck with the fist! I can never remain in the regiment, never!”