The band struck up the Russian Mazurka, and Captain Pestrakoff, at the urging of his soldiers, whirled me into the circle. One and another of the dancers dropped out and marked time on the side-lines. The Russian steps were as strange to my feet as the language was strange to my ears, but the music was irresistible. What relation there was between what we danced and the Russian Mazurka I do not know; but we danced and the crowd cheered. Suddenly the Captain became conscious that we were alone in the circle. He colored and abruptly stopped. Half a dozen men grabbed him up on their shoulders and tossed him in the air again and again. A dashing little soldier from the Ural Mountains caught me and whirled me through a succession of spirited steps to the end of the music. As I left the crowd, another soldier saluted and slipped something into my hand with a shy _pashalasta_ (please). I looked down and found two tiny emblems, the crossed wings and propellers of the aviation corps, cleverly fashioned from the aluminum cap of a German shell. The telephone tinkled the news that the enemy aëroplanes were avoiding the battery, and had passed far to the south. From the dance we went to the Captain’s brown canvas _palatka_ (tent), where a tiny brass samovar bubbled. There was candy from Moscow, an almost unheard-of luxury in those days, and wild blueberries gathered by the villagers and presented in gratitude for the security that the Captain was bringing. I noticed a _balalika_ in one corner, and at our urging our host clicked off the favorite folk-songs of the Don Cossacks. The following night we were again drinking tea in the little _palatka_. The hour was late. The sky was hung with clouds. A drizzle pattered on the canvas roof. It was the last possible time and place to expect an aërial caller. The Captain jumped suddenly from his chair. “We have a visitor,” he said. “What?” asked Peter. “There is an aëroplane in the vicinity,” he said. We listened, but our untrained ears distinguished nothing but the rain on the roof. We followed the Captain to the square. Deserted a moment before, it was now filling quickly with barefoot men in various stages of night-dress. The Captain ordered all lights in the village out, and sent the men--who were targets in their white night-clothes--back to dress. He gave the command to load the guns and stand ready. In low tones the men speculated as to whether they were in for a bomb attack on the battery or a Zeppelin raid on the railway junction. By this time the purr of the motor was audible even to Peter and to me. Alternatives were discussed in whispers. The Captain might fire a random shot; but if it were a bomb attack, this would merely disclose the position of the battery. He waited and said nothing.