"O, no!" she replied. "Madame Tolstoff's son is serving in Sebastopol; my brother serves there also; and the kind Prince has merely given us the use of this mansion, as he has done the more regal one at Alupka to other ladies similarly situated; and now that you know our secret," she added, archly, "pray what is yours?" "Secret!--I have none." "You were not--well, reconnoitring?" I coloured, feeling certain that she had substituted that word for one less pleasant to military ears. "No, madam: while seeking to convey a despatch from Lord Raglan to Marshal Canrobert I lost my way, fell among Cossacks, and am here." "When my brother arrives--we expect him ere long--we shall be compelled to confide you to his care; meantime you are safe, and here are refreshments, of which you seem sorely in need; and for greater secrecy, Ivan Yourivitch will serve you here." "Who the deuce can this brother be of whom she talks so much, and where can she have acquired such capital English?" were my surmises as I seated myself at a side-table, and, with old Ivan standing towel in hand at my back, fell _à la Cosaque_, on the good things before me, with an appetite unimpaired by all that I had undergone. To the elder lady's horror, I omitted previously to cross myself or turn towards the _eikon_; but fragrant coffee made as only Orientals and Continentals can make it, golden honey from the hills and woods of Yaila, newly-laid eggs, salmon fresh from the Salghir, boar's ham from the forests of Kaffa, and wine from Achmetchet, made a repast fit for the gods--then how much so for a long-famished Briton! While I partook of it the ladies conversed together in a low voice in Russian, seeming to ignore my presence; for though full of natural female curiosity and impatience to question me, they were too well-bred to trouble me just then. Those who have starved as we starved in the Crimea can alone relish and test the comforts of a good meal. You must sleep--or doze--amid the half-frozen mud and ooze of the trenches, or in a cold draughty tent, to know the actual luxury of clean sheets, a soft bed, and cosy pillows. Hence it is, that though accustomed to "rough it" in any fashion and degree, no one so keenly appreciates the warmth, the food, and the genuine comforts of home as the old campaigner, or the weather-worn seaman, who has perhaps doubled "the Horn," and known what it is to hand a half-frozen topsail in a tempestuous night, with his nails half torn out by the roots, as he lay out to windward. Yet when I found myself in quarters so comfortable, hospitable, and splendid, I could not but think regretfully of the regiment, of Phil Caradoc, of Charley Gwynne, and others who were literally starving before the enemy--starving and dying of cold and of hunger! CHAPTER XLV.--EVIL TIDINGS.