Seated sidewise on the front of his cart a Russian peasant, wearing his whole beard, a felt cap on his head, was tying a knot in an enormous whip, which he held by the handle under his elbow. He turned his back to four or five soldiers shaken and tossed about in the vehicle. One of them, his arm tied up, his overcoat thrown on over his shirt, seated erect and firm, although somewhat pale and thin, occupied the middle place. Perceiving the officer, he instinctively raised his hand to his cap, but remembering his wound, he made believe he wanted to scratch his head. Another one was lying down beside him on the bottom of the cart. All that could be seen of him was his two hands clinging to the wooden bars, and his two raised knees swinging nervelessly like two hempen dish-rags. A third, with swollen face, his head wrapped with a cloth on which was placed his soldier’s cap, seated sidewise, his legs hanging outside and grazing the wheel, was dozing, his hands resting on his knees. “Doljikoff!” the traveller shouted at him. “Present!” replied the latter, opening his eyes and taking off his cap. His bass voice was so full, so tremendous, that it seemed to come out of the chest of twenty soldiers together. “When were you wounded?” “Health to your Excellency!”[F] he cried with his strong voice, his glassy and swollen eyes growing animated at the sight of his superior officer. “Where is the regiment?” “At Sebastopol, your Excellency. They are thinking of going away from there Wednesday.” “Where to?” “They don’t know--to Severnaïa, no doubt, your Excellency. At present,” he continued, dragging his words, “_he_ is firing straight through everything, especially with shells, even away into the bay. _He_ is firing in a frightful manner!--” And he added words which could not be understood; but from his face and from his position it could be guessed that, with a suffering man’s sense of injury, he was saying something of a not very consoling nature.