thanked him courteously, but inquired whether Captain Adrian Wertsch, of the Moscow militia, was not then in the camp. The aide-de-camp answered in the affirmative, and agreed to bring Ivan to his tent, though very reluctantly; for he was sorry to lose the honour and pleasure of entertaining one who could give him so many interesting details about the French occupation of Moscow.
Adrian was standing outside his tent when Ivan approached, and he greeted him with joyful astonishment, as one risen from the dead.
"I did not think to see your face again," he said.
"Life is still left me," returned Ivan in a broken voice; for, after so many horrors, the sight of a familiar face proved at the moment almost more than he could bear.
"Come in," said Adrian, drawing his arm affectionately within his own. "A good draught of champagne is what you want now."
"Will you tell your orderly to take care of my friend Michael Ivanovitch? He has behaved like a hero."
"Certainly."
Adrian gave a few rapid directions, then led Ivan into his tent, and before he would listen to a word, poured for him a sparkling goblet of the beverage which he considered a panacea for all the ills, mental and bodily, of the noble, as vodka was for those of the mujik.
Ivan needed the stimulant, for he was worn out with fatigue and excitement. He said, as he finished the draught, "You got my letter, Adrian?"
"Yes. My poor mother!"
"No one was to blame. We did all we could, but nothing would induce her to leave the old home; and when the French entered Moscow, the shock was more than she could bear. We buried her honourably, by the side of her husband, in the Church of St. Eustacius. Pope Yefim performed the funeral services."
