He had been sitting in the cart, quite motionless, his face white and hidden, as though he slept. He raised his tired, heavy eyes to my face. "Do?" he said. "Yes," I answered impatiently. "Didn't you hear what Nikolai said? There are no soldiers here. We can't find Maximoff because he isn't here. We must go back, I suppose." "Very well," he answered indifferently. "I'm not going back," I said, "until I've had something to drink--tea or coffee. I wonder whether there's anything here--any place we could go to." Nikolai inquired. Old Shylock pointed with his bony finger down the street. "Very fine restaurant there," he said. "Will you come and see?" I asked Trenchard. "Very well," said Trenchard. I told Nikolai to stay there and wait for us. I walked down the street, followed by Trenchard. I found on my left, at the top of a little flight of steps, a house that was for the most part untouched by the general havoc around and about it. The lower windows were cracked and the door open and gaping, but there stood, quite bravely with new paint, the word "_Restoration_" on the lintel and there were even curtains about the upper windows. Passing through the door we found a room decently clean, and behind the little bar a stout red-faced Galician in white shirt and grey trousers, a citizen of the normal world. We were just then his only customers. We asked him for tea and sat down at a little table in the corner of the room. He did not talk to us but stood in his place humming cheerfully to himself and cleaning glasses. He was a rogue, I thought, looking at his little eyes, but at any rate a merry rogue; he certainly had kept off from him the general death and desolation that had overwhelmed his neighbours. I sat opposite to Trenchard and wondered what to say to him. His expression had never varied. As I looked at him I could not but think of the strength of his eyes, of his mouth, the quiet concentration of his hands ... a different figure from the smiling uncertain man on the Petrograd station--how many years ago? Our tea was brought to us. Then quite suddenly Trenchard said to me: "Did she say anything before she died?" "No," I answered quietly. "She died instantly, they told me." "How exactly was she killed?" His eyes watched my face without falter, clearly, gravely, steadfastly. "She was killed by a bullet. Stepped out from behind her shelter and it happened at once. She can have suffered nothing." "And Semyonov _let_ her?" "He could not have prevented it. It might have happened to any one." "I would have prevented it," he said, nodding his head gravely. He was silent for a little; then with a sudden jerk he said: "Where has she gone?" "Gone?" I repeated stupidly after him. "Yes--that's not death--to go like that. She must be somewhere still--somewhere in this beastly forest. What--afterwards--when you saw her--what? ... her face?..." "She looked very peaceful--quite happy." "No restlessness in her face? No anxiety?"