A good store of vodka had been found, and with this help the soldiers soon forgot their troubles, past, present, and to come. They ate, drank, and made merry; and the sergeant, far from being any check upon their mirth, drank more deeply and talked more boisterously than any of them. The night closed over them unawares, and of course there was now no question of leaving their comfortable quarters until the morning. Féron had brought in his hand a small piece of iron, as well as the hammer and tongs he had been using. He had a jesting dispute with one of his comrades, who called in question his capabilities as a blacksmith. “Blacksmith, indeed!” said Féron. “That’s nothing. I am quite an artist, messieurs. At Brie I was accounted a connoisseur--an ornamental worker in brass, iron, and the other precious metals.” “A fine story,” laughed Henri, who was greatly the better for his comfortable meal. “At Brie your crooked nails were a joke for the whole village.” “Don’t talk, but let us _see_ what you can do. Give us a specimen,” said a conscript, a timorous little fellow, who was unpopular in the regiment because of his habit of shifting off his work upon his comrades. “Yes, I will,” returned Féron. “I’ll make an iron to brand you with when you are caught trying to desert, as you are sure to be one of these days.” A general laugh followed this retort, then silence fell over the group, while Féron hammered away at his task, and most of the others began to doze in their places. When at last he held up triumphantly, in proof of his skill, a finely-formed branding-iron with the letter N upon it, his companions were far too sleepy to give him the applause he expected. One hour--two hours passed away. All were sleeping now, even the sentinels Seppel had placed outside as a matter of form. The village of Nicolofsky was as still as it was wont to be in the noon of a midsummer night. If a sound of weeping and lamentation came, softened by distance, from the adjacent birch-wood, it failed to disturb the sleepers. But the short summer night was soon over, and the dawn began to creep in, cold and gray. Its first faint light fell upon the figure of a mujik, who traversed, with stealthy, silent footsteps, the deserted street of his native village. As he passed the church he noticed that the door had been forced open--though it was again roughly secured on the outside. He removed the fastening and looked in. The spirit of wanton outrage, only too common amongst the French soldiery, had made Seppel choose that sacred place as a stable for his horse, and the animal was eating corn out of a consecrated vessel placed upon the altar.[24] Michael Ivanovitch ground his teeth, and his dark cheek flushed ominously; but he passed on, for his heart was full of a great, deep anguish, before which every other emotion paled and faded.