Not the least interested spectator of the heated discussion was myself. The officers followed the argument breathlessly, too. The soldiers grumbled. The forces of life and death struggled within me. Now the first would triumph, now the second, depending on the turn of the quarrel. “That won’t do!” shouted Pugatchov, thrusting aside the order of the Commander-in-Chief. “It’s too late for orders like that. We will shoot her! Enough of talking!” At this moment I became aware that one of the two newly-arrived members of the committee was staring at me intently. He took a couple of steps toward me, bent his head sideways and fixed his eyes on me. There was something about that look that electrified me. As the man, who was a common soldier, craned his neck forward and stepped out of the group, a strange silence gripped everybody, so affected were all by the painful expression on his face. “A-r-e y-o-u Y-a-s-h-k-a?” he sang out slowly. “How do you know me?” I asked quickly, almost overpowered by a presentiment of salvation. “Don’t you remember how you saved my life in that March offensive, when I was wounded in the leg and you dragged me out of the mud under fire? My name is Peter. I should have perished there, in the water, and many others like me, if not for you. Why do they want to shoot you now?” “Because I am an officer,” I replied. “What conversations are you holding here?” Pugatchov thundered. “She will have to be shot, and no arguments!” “And I won’t allow her to be shot!” my God-appointed saviour answered back firmly, and walked up to me, seized my arm, pulled me out of my place, occupying it himself. “You will shoot me first!” he exclaimed. “She saved my life. She saved many of our lives. The entire Fifth Corps knows Yashka. She is a common peasant like myself, and understands no politics. If you shoot her, you will have to shoot me first!” This speech put new life into me. It also touched the hearts of many in the crowd. Petrukhin went up, took a place beside Peter and myself, and declared: “You will shoot me, too, before you execute an innocent, suffering woman!” The soldiers were now divided. Some shouted, “Let’s shoot her and make an end of this squabble! What’s the use of arguments?” Others were more human. “She is not of the bourgeoisie, but a common peasant like ourselves,” they argued. “And she does not understand politics. Perhaps she really was going to seek a cure. She was not captured, but came to us of her own accord, we must not forget that.”