"Michael! Michael Ivanovitch!" Ivan called in a faint and quivering voice.
Fortunately Michael heard the sound, and moved towards the spot whence it came. "Great St. Nicholas!" exclaimed he, "it is Barrinka!"
A good soldier always knows what to do for a wounded comrade. Water, mixed with a little brandy, was quickly borne to the lips of Ivan; and gladly would Michael have bound the wound himself, only he thought it right to yield the privilege to some one who had the use of both his hands. "But what shall we do for linen?" asked the gunner who undertook the surgeon's office.
"Here is the very thing we want!" cried Michael, delightedly producing from his knapsack a clean white cambric handkerchief.
"A token from some fair one, I suppose," said his comrade with a laugh, as he took it from his hand.
"A token from some one harder to find," returned Michael. "From a Frenchman with a notion of justice and mercy in his head."
"The Frenchmen shall learn what justice is before the dawn of to-morrow's sun," said the gunner with a dark and angry look.
He bound Ivan's wound as well as he could, gave him a little more brandy and water, and then, with Michael's assistance, placed him on a kind of couch made of cloaks and blankets. Meanwhile their companions kindled a fire, the warmth of which proved welcome to all the party.
"I feel quite comfortable now," said Ivan. "Thank you, my brothers."
At that moment an exclamation of amazement broke from the entire group. Upon a pole, on an eminence near them, a white flag was visible through the darkness. Bitter murmurs, even cries of disappointment, began to be heard. "Can it be," cried Michael, "that they are dreaming of a truce now—-
