The bushes are stirring and rustling, as if they were talking among themselves. “You will die, you will die, you will die!” they whisper. “You will not see, you will not see, you will not see!” answer the bushes on the other side. “No, you will not see them here!” I hear a loud voice quite near. I tremble and at once come to myself. I look up, to find the good blue eyes of our corporal Yakovlev looking at me. “Spades!” he cries out. “There are two more of them here--and one of them is theirs!” “There is no need for spades, no need to bury me; I’m alive!” I wish to cry out; but only a feeble groan issues from my parched lips. “Lord! But he is alive! _Barin_[1] Ivanov! Children, come this way! Our _Barin_ is alive! And bring the doctor, quick!” Presently I feel the pleasant contact in my mouth of water, whiskey, and of something else. Then everything disappears. The stretcher sways with a measured motion. This motion is soothing. Now I recall myself, now everything lapses from my memory. The bandaged wounds no longer hurt. An inexpressible feeling of comfort has diffused itself through my entire body.... “Hal-t! L-lo-wer! Fresh hands to the stretchers! Now get hold--lift--march!” The command is issued by Peter Ivanich, our sanitary officer, a tall, lean, and very kindly man. He is so tall that as I turn my eyes in his direction I can see his head, his peculiar long beard, and his shoulders, although the stretcher is being carried on the shoulders of four big men. “Peter Ivanich!” I whisper. “What is it, dear fellow?” Peter Ivanich leans toward me. “Peter Ivanich, what did the doctor tell you? Will I die soon?” “What are you saying, Ivanov? Of course you will live. Your bones are whole. What a lucky fellow you are! Your bones are all right, and so are your arteries! But tell me, how did you manage to pull through these three and a half days? What did you eat?” “Nothing.” “And had you anything to drink?” “I took the Turk’s flask. Peter Ivanich, I cannot speak now. Later....” “Well, God be with you, dear fellow, and have your nap.” Again sleep, forgetfulness.... When I awake again, I am in the division hospital, surrounded by nurses and doctors. At my feet stands a man whom I recognize as a celebrated St. Petersburg professor. His hands are blood-stained. He is attending to me, and presently he turns to speak to me: “Well, the Lord has been good to you, young man. You will remain alive. We’ve deprived you of one leg; but that is a mere trifle. Can you talk?” Yes, I can talk, and I am telling him all that I have written here. FOOTNOTES: [1] A term of deference usually employed by peasants and servants in addressing their master, or in speaking of him. CHEKHOV, RECORDER OF LOST ILLUSIONS