The last sortie from Plevna was witnessed by Skobeleff from the heights above. The Turkish infantry were deploying with great smartness, taking advantage of the cover afforded by the ground. The skirmishers were already out in the open, driving before them the Russian outposts. Skobeleff was very excited. “Were there ever more skilful tactics?” he said. “They are born soldiers, those Turks--already half-way to Ganetzky’s front, hidden first by the darkness and now by the long bank under which they are forming in perfect safety. Beautiful indeed! Never was a sortie more skilfully prepared. How I should like to be in command of it!” Skobeleff then turned his glass on the Russian defence line. He seldom swore, but now a torrent of oaths burst from his lips. “Oh, that ass--that consummate ass--Ganetzky!” he shouted, striking his thigh with his clenched fist. “What fool’s work! He had his orders; he was warned of the intended sortie; he might have had any number of reinforcements. And what preparation has he made? None. He is confronting Osman’s army with six battalions when he might have had twenty-four. Mark my words: the Turks will carry our first line with a rush. We shall retrieve it, but to have lost it for ever so short a time will be our disgrace for ever.” Then Skobeleff spat angrily and rode off at a gallop. How true those words were we have seen already. At 2 p.m. Osman had been obliged to surrender, and shortly after he met the Russian Grand Duke Nicholas--Osman in a carriage, Nicholas on horseback. They looked one another long in the face, then Nicholas offered his hand heartily, and said: “General, I honour you for your noble defence of Plevna. It has been among the most splendid examples of skill and heroism in modern history!” Osman’s face winced a little--perhaps a twitch of pain crossed it--as, in spite of his wound, he struggled to his feet and uttered a few broken words in a low tone. The Russian officers saluted with great demonstration of respect, and shouts of “Bravo!” rang out again and again. Poor victorious Osman! conquered at last by King Famine. He had lived in a common green tent during the whole period of the investment; his last night at Plevna was the first he spent under a roof.