The pony had wandered a little from the main road, which the steady stream of hospital and commissary waggons had made well-nigh impassable, and Fred had allowed him to pick out his own path across the plain so long as his general direction was right. The little animal now interrupted him by shying violently at an object upon which he had almost trampled. Peering down Fred saw a soldier stretched out upon the sodden ground. At first he thought the man was dead, but looking more closely he saw the soldier's hand move slightly, as if to ward off a blow. "Poor chap!" said Fred, whose kind New England heart the horrors of war had by no means hardened, "I won't hurt you. Are you wounded?" As the man did not reply, the rider dismounted for a closer examination of the prostrate soldier. Then he uttered an exclamation of pity. It was evident that the man had been struck--probably by a fragment of a shell--and a terrible wound inflicted upon his head. How he had managed to crawl from the firing line as far as this spot, Larkin could not see. It was plainly impossible for him to live. Fred mustered up what little Russian he could command and spoke gently to the poor fellow, whose life was going fast. "What is your name?" he asked. "Can I do anything for you?" "Ivan--Ivanovitch," gasped the soldier, making a great effort to speak. "I do not--know--I do not understand--I am a--soldier of--Russia--It was the command--the Little Father--ah-h!" He spoke no more, but lay quiet and silent, his white, boyish face, upturned to the slow rain. Fred opened his military coat, and laid his hand upon Ivan's breast. The ikon was there, treasured to the last; but the heart no longer beat. At the Little Father's command, Ivan Ivanovitch, like thousands of his comrades, not knowing why, not understanding, but faithful to the last, had given up his home, his dear ones, his life. With a long sigh Fred drew the flap of the young soldier's coat over the still face, remounted his pony, and rode on towards Liaoyang. He found the town in a state of wild confusion, with heavy carts rumbling through the ill-made streets, crowds of wounded men on their way to the hospitals and the trains for Mukden; refugees clamouring at the railroad station, householders removing their goods, and thousands of people hurrying to and fro like ants in a breached ant-hill. With much difficulty the reporter got a brief dispatch through to the _Bulletin_, and sought a well-earned rest at his lodgings near the station. Night after night the cannon thundered, and day after day the battle raged. The Russian front was now crowded in from thirty miles to less than eight. At great risk Oyama resolved to divide his army, and attempt a flanking movement, which proved successful. On the seventh day of the battle, Kuroki threw a strong force across the Taitse, ten miles above the town. This movement turned the scale. Kouropatkin gave orders to fall back on Mukden.