The young officer respectfully turning his eyes upon the thin face of the latter suddenly lighted up by a smile, continued to pour the tea in silence. And truly the figure, the position of the wounded man, and, above all, the fluttering sleeve of his uniform, gave him that appearance of calm indifference which seemed to reply to everything said and done about him, “All this is very well, but I know it all, and I could do it if I wanted to.”
“What shall we decide to do?” asked the young officer of his comrade with the Circassian coat. “Shall we pass the night here, or shall we push on with our single horse?
“Just think of it, captain,” he continued, when his companion had declined his suggestion (he spoke to the one-armed man, picking up a knife he had dropped), “since they told us that horses could not be had at Sebastopol at any price, we bought one out of the common purse at Sympheropol.”
“Did they skin you well?”
“I don’t know anything about it, captain. We paid for the whole thing, horse and wagon, ninety rubles. Is it very dear?” he added, addressing all who looked at him, Koseltzoff included.
“It isn’t too dear if the horse is young,” said the latter.
“Isn’t it? Nevertheless, we have been assured it was dear. He limps a little, it is true, but that will go off. They told us he was very strong.”
“What institution are you from?” Koseltzoff asked him, wishing to get news of his brother.
“We belonged to the regiment of the nobility. There are six of us who are going of our own accord to Sebastopol,” replied the loquacious little officer, “but we don’t exactly know where our battery is. Some say at Sebastopol, but this gentleman says it is at Odessa.”
“Wouldn’t you have been able to find out at Sympheropol?” asked Koseltzoff.