A good soldier always knows what to do for a wounded comrade. Water, mixed with a little brandy, was quickly borne to the lips of Ivan; and gladly would Michael have bound the wound himself, only he thought it right to yield the privilege to some one who had the use of both his hands. “But what shall we do for linen?” asked the gunner who undertook the surgeon’s office. “Here is the very thing we want!” cried Michael, delightedly producing from his knapsack a clean white cambric handkerchief. “A token from some fair one, I suppose,” said his comrade with a laugh, as he took it from his hand. “A token from some one harder to find,” returned Michael. “From a Frenchman with a notion of justice and mercy in his head.” “The Frenchmen shall learn what justice is before the dawn of to-morrow’s sun,” said the gunner with a dark and angry look. He bound Ivan’s wound as well as he could, gave him a little more brandy and water, and then, with Michael’s assistance, placed him on a kind of couch made of cloaks and blankets. Meanwhile their companions kindled a fire, the warmth of which proved welcome to all the party. “I feel quite comfortable now,” said Ivan. “Thank you, my brothers.” At that moment an exclamation of amazement broke from the entire group. Upon a pole, on an eminence near them, a white flag was visible through the darkness. Bitter murmurs, even cries of disappointment, began to be heard. “Can it be,” cried Michael, “that they are dreaming of a truce now--now--with the city in our very hands? It must be those accursed treacherous Austrians or those fools of Prussians who are showing the white feather. But the Czar will never listen to them--_never_!” “Never!” eagerly assented all around. “He remembers the flames of Moscow.” They were not left long in suspense. Presently an aide-de-camp, galloping along the lines, brought the orders of the Czar: “Extinguish your matches. Pile your muskets. The city is about to capitulate.” The order was obeyed, but with a great and bitter cry, like the cry of a wild beast that sees his prey escape him. Rage and disappointment filled every heart to overflowing. Michael flung himself on his knees beside his now useless gun, covering his face with his one hand, while the tears rolled down his weather-beaten cheeks. Touched by his distress, Ivan called him to his side. “What is the matter, friend?” he asked gently. “Matter, Barrinka? Matter enough to break the heart of a man who has marched from Moscow to Paris with only one thought, one hope in his heart--the hope of vengeance.” “I cannot blame you, Michael. You have bitter wrongs to avenge.”