"And what's the use of it? First one insults the officers in the presence of the men, and then complaints are made of lack of discipline. But to give a scamp his deserts is a thing one dare not do. He is, if you please, a 'human being,' a 'personage'; but in the good old times there were no 'personages' in the army. Then the cattle got what they needed, and then there was the Italian Campaign, Sebastopol, and several other trifles. Well, all the same thing, so far as I am concerned. I'll do my duty even if it costs me my commission, and as far as my arm reaches every scoundrel shall get his deserts." "There's no honour in striking a soldier," exclaimed Romashov, in a muffled voice. Up to this he had been merely a silent listener. "One can't hit a man who is not allowed to raise a hand in self-defence. It is as cowardly as it is cruel." Captain Sliva bestowed on Romashov an annihilating look, pressed his underlip against his little grey, bristling moustache, and at length exclaimed, with an expression of the deepest contempt-- "Wha-at's that?" Romashov stood as white as a corpse, his pulse beat violently, and a cold shudder ran through his body. "I said that such a method of treatment was cruel and cowardly, and I--retain my opinion," answered Romashov nervously, but without flinching. "You don't say so!" twittered Sliva. "Listen to my young cockerel. Should you, against all likelihood, be another year with the regiment, you shall be provided with a muzzle. That you may rely on. Thank God, I know how to deal with such germs of evil. Don't worry yourself about that." Romashov fearlessly directed at him a glance of hatred, straight in his eyes, and said, almost in a whisper-- "If ever I see you maltreat a soldier I will report it at once to the commander of the regiment." "What, do you dare?" shrieked Sliva in a threatening voice, but checked himself instantly. "Enough of this," he went on to say dryly; "you ensigns are a little too young to teach veterans who have smelt powder, and who have, for more than a quarter of a century, served their Tsar without incurring punishment. Officers, return to your respective posts." Captain Sliva turned his back sharply on the officers and went away. "Why do you poke your nose into all that?" asked Viätkin as he took Romashov by the arm and left the place. "As you know, that old plum[16] isn't one of the sweetest; besides, you don't know him yet as well as I do. Be careful what you are about; he is not to be played with, and some fine day he'll put you in the lock-up in earnest." "Listen, Pavel Pavlich," cried Romashov, with tears of rage in his voice. "Do you think views such as Captain Sliva's are worthy of an officer? And is it not revolting that such old bags of bones should be suffered to insult their subordinates with impunity? Who can put up with it in the long run?"