“What is this?” he asked Sepailoff in a severe, threatening voice; and, without waiting for an answer, struck him a blow with his tashur that sent him to the floor.
We went out and the General ordered my luggage produced. Then he brought me to his own yurta.
“Live here, now,” he said. “I am very glad of this accident,” he remarked with a smile, “for now I can say all that I want to.”
This drew from me the question:
“May I describe all that I have heard and seen here?”
He thought a moment before replying: “Give me your notebook.”
I handed him the album with my sketches of the trip and he wrote therein: “After my death, Baron Ungern.”
“But I am older than you and I shall die before you,” I remarked.
He shut his eyes, bowed his head and whispered:
“Oh, no! One hundred thirty days yet and it is finished; then . . . Nirvana! How wearied I am with sorrow, woe and hate!”