“It is all over, I am killed!” he thought, at the sound of the explosion, without thinking any more of odd or even. Struck on the head, he felt a terrible pain. “Lord, pardon my sins!” he murmured, clasping his hands. He tried to rise, and fell unconscious, face downward. His first sensation when he came to himself was of blood running from his nose. The pain in his head was much lessened. “My soul is departing. What will there be over _yonder_? My God, receive my soul in peace! It is nevertheless strange,” he reasoned, “that I am dying, and I can distinctly hear the footsteps of the soldiers and the sound of shots!” “A stretcher this way! The company chief is killed!” cried a voice which he recognized, that of the drummer Ignatieff. Some one raised him up by the shoulders; he opened his eyes with an effort and saw the dark-blue sky over his head, myriads of stars, and two shells flying through space as if they were racing with each other. He saw Ignatieff, soldiers loaded down with stretchers and with muskets, the slope of the intrenchment, and suddenly he understood he was still in the world. A stone had slightly wounded him on the head. His first impression was almost a regret. He felt so well, so quietly prepared to go over _yonder_, that the return to reality, the sight of the shells, of the trenches, and of blood, was painful to him. The second impression was an involuntary joy at feeling himself alive, and the third was the desire to leave the bastion as quickly as possible. The drummer bandaged his chief’s head and led him towards the field-hospital, supporting him under his arm. “Where am I going, and what for?” thought the captain, coming to himself a little. “My duty is to remain with my company--all the more,” whispered a little voice within him, “since it will shortly be out of range of the enemy’s fire.” “It’s no use, my friend,” he said to the drummer, taking away his arm. “I won’t go to the field-hospital; I will stay with my company.” “You had better let yourself be properly taken care of, your Excellency. It don’t seem to be anything at first, but it may grow worse. Indeed, your Excellency--” Mikhaïloff stopped, undecided what to do. He would have followed Ignatieff’s advice, perhaps, but he saw what a number of wounded men crowded the hospital, almost all of them seriously hurt. “Perhaps the doctor will make fun of my scratch,” he said to himself, and without listening to the drummer’s arguments he went with a firm step to join his company. “Where is officer Praskoukine, who was beside me a short time ago?” he asked of the sub-lieutenant whom he found at the head of the company. “I don’t know; I think he was killed,” hesitatingly replied the latter. “Killed or wounded? Why, don’t you know? He was marching with us. Why didn’t you bring him off?” “It wasn’t possible in that furnace.”