“Well?” Shulgovich raised his voice.
“I—am—standing—on guard,” the Tartar at last spluttered out, chancing it. “I cannot—understand, your Excellency,” he went on to say, but he relapsed into silence again, and stood motionless.
The Colonel’s face assumed a dark brick colour, a shade with a touch of blue about it, and his bushy eyebrows began to pucker in an alarming way. Beside himself with fury, he turned round and said in a sharp tone—
“Who is the youngest officer here?”
Romashov stepped forward and touched his cap.
“I am, Colonel.”
“Ha—Sub-lieutenant Romashov, you evidently train your men well. Stand at attention and stretch your legs,” bawled Shulgovich suddenly, his eyes rolling. “Don’t you know how to stand in the presence of your commanding officer? Captain Sliva, I beg to inform you that your subaltern officer has been lacking in the respect due to his chief. And you, you miserable cur,” he now turned towards the unhappy Sharafutdinov, “tell me the name of your Commander.”
“I don’t know,” replied Sharafutdinov quickly, but in a firm tone in which, nevertheless, a melancholy resignation might be detected.
“Oh, I ask you the name of your Colonel. Do you know who I am? I—I—I!” and Shulgovich drummed with the flat of his hand several times on his broad chest.
“I don’t know.”