I followed him reluctantly. A few hundred feet away from the station we stopped. I could go no further. The field in front of us was covered with scores of mangled, naked corpses. It made my flesh creep. “There are about two hundred of them here, mostly officers who had joined or sought to join Kornilov,” he explained. I could not help shivering. The dreadful scene nearly shattered my nerves and it was all I could do not to collapse. “Ah, you women, women,” my escort nodded sympathetically. “You are all weak. You don’t know what war is. Still,” he admitted, “there are some who can compare with men. Take Botchkareva, for instance, she would not shudder at sights like this.” “Who is she, this Botchkareva?” I was curious. “Haven’t you heard of her?” he asked in surprise. “Why, she was a soldier of the old régime and organized the Women’s Battalion of Death. She is for Kornilov and the bourgeoisie. They gave her an officer’s rank and bought her over to their side, although she is of peasant blood.” It was all very interesting, this theory of my corruption. I had heard it before, but not stated in such definite terms. At the same time I was haunted by the picture of those mangled bodies, and the thought rankled in my mind of the treacherous Bolsheviks who had opposed capital punishment in the war against Germany but introduced it in the most brutal fashion in the war against their own brothers. I then told my friend of the trouble in which I found myself, that I was penniless, that I had to get home to Kislovodsk and that I did not know how to get through the front. He explained to me that the so-called front was not a continuous line but a series of posts, maintained on this side by the Bolsheviks and on the opposite side by Kornilov. “Sometimes,” he added, “the peasants of the neighbouring villages are allowed by both sides to pass through to Novotcherkask, Kornilov’s headquarters. If you follow that road,” and he pointed to it, “you will come to a village about three miles from here. One of the peasants may be willing to convey you across.” I thanked him for the valuable information, and we parted friends. The walk to the village was uneventful. On the outskirts of it I saw an old moujik working outside of his hut. There was a stable and horses attached to it. “Good day, grandfather!” I greeted the old man. “Good day, little sister,” he answered. “Would you drive me to the city?” I asked. “Great God! How is it possible? The Bolsheviks are fighting in front of the city, and they don’t let anybody pass,” he said. “But people do go sometimes, don’t they?” “Yes, sometimes they do.” “Well, I will give you fifty roubles for driving me to the city,” I offered. The moujik scratched his neck, reconsidering the matter. “But aren’t you a political?” he inquired cautiously. “No,” I assured him, “I am not.”