the steps of the burning house. The master of the house they had already killed, but the mother was clinging, though mortally wounded, to the leg of a Cossack to save a child—a little girl—whom he was trying to drag away with him. Before I could reach him, I saw him lift a spear and plunge it into the mother’s breast, so that she swooned away and let go her hold of his leg, while at the same moment the child tore herself away and ran off towards the courtyard. Enraged, the monster threw his blood-stained spear after the child, and sprang aside to catch her. Fortunately, he only touched her flowing hair, and at that moment I and my men reached him. ‘“Monster!” I shouted. “Would you kill an innocent child?” and I placed my spear on the man’s breast so that he stopped. ‘The child clung to my leg, and cried to me in mortal fear and with tears in its little eyes, “Save me! save me!” I took her in my arms and lifted her on to my horse. Poor child! she clung in her terror close to me, and hid herself under my large riding-coat. ‘The farm continued to burn. No one seemed to think of putting out the fire, and the people belonging to the farm who had not been able to escape at once were lying dead in all directions in the burning house. I gave orders for a retreat within the boundary of Karelen; but what was I to do with the child whom I had beside me on my horse, a little girl some six or seven years old? She looked terrified at my men if any of them came near me, and with her little arms took tight hold of me. ‘“Hold me fast!” she cried; “don’t let go of me, dear, dear man! don’t let them kill me!”’ ‘“No, my child, no one shall touch you,” I said, to pacify her. ‘The district was a lonely one, and the people all about had taken to flight. I could not, therefore, leave the child at the farm which had been burnt down. She would have perished of cold and hunger, as most likely people would not venture there again for some time. I took the child with me, therefore, to the camp. She was a pretty little girl. When we dismounted from our horses at the camp, she would not on any account let go my hand, which she grasped with both her own. ‘“What is your name?” I asked her, when we had entered my tent and her terror had somewhat subsided. ‘“Nita,” she replied, crying. ‘“Your parents are dead, my poor child,” I said. “Have you brothers and sisters?” ‘“No; father and mother had only me.” ‘“Have you any relations?” ‘“No; I don’t know of any.” ‘“I really don’t know what to do with you, my poor little Nita, or where to send you.” ‘“Don’t send me away!” she cried. “Can’t I stop with you? I am so frightened at all the men here. Can I keep with you? I will be a good girl, and I am called Annita, too. Annita is my proper name.”