"Oh, I forgot—it seems a thousand years ago," said Michael, in a sad, dreamy voice. "Besides, it was never anything but child's play with you. Ivan Barrinka, we quarrelled in the old days, you and I. She used to like you better than me, because you were handsome and a boyar. But that is all over now. We shall quarrel no more, for Anna Popovna is with the saints. The Nyemtzi have killed her."
Ivan's agitation was extreme. He still fancied he loved the village girl, no real passion having as yet taken possession of his heart to "put the old cheap joy in the scorned dust." In wild excitement he strode up and down the room, uttering incoherent lamentations and cursing the French; but at last he stopped before Michael and asked briefly, in a choking voice, "How?"
Michael's grief had been his companion for weary days and nights—he was used to it now, so he answered very quietly, "One evening we saw the blue-coats coming, and some of us went out to show fight and keep them off a little, while the rest convoyed our women safely into the wood. But the scoundrels saw them, and fired. The distance was long, and they did not take good aim. Only two shots told: one of them wounded the lad we used to call little Peter rather badly in the shoulder; the other—killed her—"
"At once!"
"She lived some hours. She did not suffer much. She died in peace." Michael spoke with difficulty, and in a low voice. There was a pause; then he resumed, taking a picture from beneath his caftan and showing it to Ivan, "Her last look was fixed on this. Her father gave it to me, because I brought it to her from his house, where the Nyemtzi were."
"Did the French stay there for the night?"
Michael nodded.
"Then what were you about, Michael Ivanovitch," cried
