The commander of the battery lived in a little two-story house. It was entered through a court-yard. In one of the windows, in which a pane was missing and was replaced by a sheet of paper, shone the feeble light of a candle. The servant, seated in the door-way, was smoking his pipe. Having announced Volodia to his master, he showed him into his room. There, between two windows, beside a broken mirror, was seen a table loaded with official papers, several chairs, an iron bed with clean linen and a rug before it. Near the door stood the sergeant-major, a fine man, with a splendid pair of mustaches, his sword in its belt. On his coat sparkled a cross and the medal of the Hungary campaign. The staff-officer, small in stature, with a swollen and bandaged cheek, walked up and down, dressed in a frock-coat of fine cloth which bore marks of long wear. He was decidedly corpulent, and appeared about forty years old. A bald spot was clearly marked on the top of his head; his thick mustache, hanging straight down, hid his mouth; his brown eyes had an agreeable expression; his hands were fine, white, a little fat; his feet, very much turned out, were put down with a certain assurance and a certain affectation which proved that bashfulness was not the weak side of the commander. “I have the honor to present myself. I am attached to the Fifth Light Battery--Koseltzoff, the second-ensign,” said Volodia, who, entering the room, recited in one breath this lesson learned by heart. The commander of the battery replied by a somewhat dry salute, and without offering him his hand begged him to be seated. Volodia then sat down timidly near the writing-table, and in his distraction getting hold of a pair of scissors, began to play with them mechanically. With hands behind his back and with bowed head, the commander of the battery continued his promenade in silence, casting his eyes from time to time on the fingers which continued to juggle with the scissors. “Yes,” he said, stopping at last in front of the sergeant-major, “from to-morrow on we must give another measure of oats to the caisson horses; they are thin. What do you think of it?” “Why not? It can be done, your High Excellency; oats are now cheaper,” replied the sergeant-major, his arms stuck to the side of his body and his fingers stirring--an habitual movement with which he usually accompanied his conversation. “Then there is the forage-master, Frantzone, who wrote me a line yesterday, your High Excellency. He said we must buy axle-trees without fail; they are cheap. What are your orders?” “Well, they must be bought; there is money,” answered the commander, continuing to walk. “Where are your traps?” he suddenly said, pausing before Volodia.