When Romashov entered "the mortuary" he found two men sitting there on a bed near the window. The room was dark, and it was some time before Romashov recognized in one of the "guests" ex-Staff-Captain Klodt, alcoholist and thief, and on those grounds expelled from the command of his company. The other was a certain Ensign Solotuchin--a tall, lean, bald-headed, worn-out rake and gambler, feared and despised wherever he went for his evil, lying tongue and his conversation interlarded with coarse cynicisms and improprieties--a veritable type of the ensigns of the storybooks. Between these two worthy "birds of a feather" might be seen on the table the dim outline of a schnapps bottle, an empty plate, and two full glasses. The pair of boon companions were silent when Romashov entered the room, and tried, as it were, to hide themselves in the darkness; but when he leaned over them, they looked at him with a sly smile. "What, in the name of goodness, are you two doing here?" asked Romashov, in alarm. "Hush!" Solotuchin made a mysterious warning gesture with his forefinger. "Wait here, and don't disturb us." "Hold your jaw!" ordered Klodt in a whisper. At the same moment the rattling noise of a _telega_ was heard somewhere in the distance. Then the two strangers raised their glasses, clicked them together, and drained the contents. "But answer me. What is the meaning of it all?" repeated Romashov in the same anxious tone. "My little greenhorn," replied Klodt in a significant whisper, "if you must know, it's only our usual little morning repast; but now I hear the _telega_, Ensign," Klodt went on to say as he turned to Solotuchin. "It's time then to finish our drink and be off. What do you think of the moonlight? Will it suit?" "My glass is empty already," replied Solotuchin, glancing out of the window at the moon's slender, pointed sickle that stood drowsy and sleepy in the sky, and hung down over the little slumbering town. "But let's just wait a wee bit. S-sh! I thought I heard a dog barking." And again they bent towards one another to resume their mysterious conversation, carried on in a low voice; the spluttering tone and evident lack of coherence witnessed clearly enough that the schnapps had begun to take effect. From the _salle-à-manger_ hard by came now and then the melancholy, hollow tones of Viätkin's and Osadchi's improvised Mass for the Dead, which had a weird and threatening ring about it in the silent night. Romashov seized his head with both hands. "I beseech you, gentlemen, to stop this. I can't stand it any longer." "Go to the devil!" roared Solotuchin. "No, stop, dear boy--whither away? But, by all that's unholy, you shall first drink a glass with two fine fellows. Catch tight hold of him, Captain, I'll shut the door."