“Such slaughter as this is not war,” he went on, in a loud voice. “They have surrendered, then make them prisoners.”
“Holy Father Rostosef, you are right,” came from the commander of the Russian foot solders. “We will make them prisoners, and they shall be treated as such.” He faced the Cossacks. “You have disgraced your uniform. Retire to our left flank.”
The Cossacks fell back still further, and presently rode off, muttering among themselves. They did not dare disobey their superior, and they were afraid of the priest.
Some foot soldiers were then ordered up, and in less than quarter of an hour all of the prisoners had been searched and their weapons taken from them. They were then told to form in a column of twos, and were thus marched off, with the Russian infantry formed all around them. The wounded were left to take care of themselves, after having been given a few rations and some water.
“Well, this is a turn of affairs I don’t like,” whispered Gilbert to Ben, who was marching beside him.
“Looks as if we were booked for some Russian prison, doesn’t it?”
“That’s it, Ben,—or else some prisoners’ camp, which may be just as bad.”
“Never mind, let us be thankful those drunken Cossacks didn’t have their way and murder us all.”
“They are the toughest set of soldiers I have seen. They must be next door to these Chinese brigands they call Chunchuses.”
“We’ve got that priest to thank for saving us. They are afraid of him if they aren’t afraid of anybody else.”