Khliabnikov's bowed head fell suddenly on Romashov's knee, which he embraced with both arms. All his being shook with suppressed weeping. "I can't stand any more," he uttered at last, "I'll bear it no longer. Oh, my God! They beat me, they mock me; the sergeants shriek for schnapps and money. Where is a poor devil like me to get money? And then they beat me again--me, who have suffered from childhood from an incurable pain--a severe rupture." Romashov bent down over his head, which shook convulsively backwards and forwards against Romashov's knee. He perceived the smell of the soldier's dirty, unhealthy body, and the rank stench of his cloak, which also served as a counterpane during the cold nights in his tent. An infinite sorrow for and disgust at himself, his profession, and the whole world harrowed the young officer's soul. With overflowing heart he rested his forehead against Khliabnikov's burning head and stubbly hair, at the same time whispering scarcely audibly-- "My brother!" Khliabnikov grasped Romashov's hand, on which a few warm tears fell. Romashov even felt two cold, clammy lips kissing his fingers, but he did not withdraw his hand, and he spoke simple, calming, touching words, just as when one talks to a weeping, injured child. Then he escorted Khliabnikov back to the camp, and then sent for Shapovalenko, the sergeant on duty that day in the 6th Company. The latter came out hurriedly, clad in an obviously imperfect costume, peered for a while with a pair of drowsy eyes, scratched himself both back and front with an earnestness that was probably more than justified. After several tremendous yawns he became gradually awake to the situation. Romashov ordered him to release Khliabnikov from any duties he might happen to have just then. "Your Honour, this may perhaps be a little premature." "No arguing!" shrieked Romashov in a furious tone. "Tell the Captain to-morrow that you acted on my instructions." Then turning to Khliabnikov, he added: "We meet to-morrow, you know, at my house," and received in reply a long, shy, grateful look. Romashov slowly turned his steps homewards along the camp. A few words caught from a whispered conversation in one of the tents caused him to stop and listen: "You see, comrades," says a subdued voice, "that this same devil sends the soldier his very chief magician. When the magician catches sight of the soldier, he roars at him like this: 'What's a soldier to me? I'll eat him!' 'No,' replies the soldier, 'you can't do that, old chap, for I myself am a magician----'"