“To Severnaïa for cartridges. They send me in place of the aide-de-camp of the regiment. They are expecting an assault every moment.”
“And Martzeff, where’s he?”
“He lost a leg yesterday in the city; in his room. He was asleep. You know him, perhaps.”
“The regiment is in the fifth, isn’t it?”
“Yes; it relieved the M——. Stop at the field-hospital, you will find our fellows there; they will show you the way.”
“Have my quarters in the Morskaïa been kept?”
“Ah, brother, the shells destroyed them long since! You wouldn’t recognize Sebastopol any longer. There isn’t a soul there; neither women, nor band, nor eating-house. The last café closed yesterday. It is now so dismal! Good-by!” and the officer went away on the trot.
A terrible fear suddenly seized Volodia. It seemed to him that a shell was going to fall on him, and that a piece would surely strike him on the head. The moist darkness, the sinister sounds, the constant noise of the wrathful waves, all seemed to urge him to take not another step, and to tell him that no good awaited him there; that his foot would never touch the solid earth on the other side of the bay; that he would do well to turn back, to flee as quickly as possible this terrible place where death reigns. “Who knows? Perhaps it is too late. My lot is fixed.” He said this to himself, trembling at the thought, and also on account of the water which was running into his boots. He sighed deeply, and kept away from his brother a little.
“My God! shall I really be killed—I? Oh, my God, have mercy on me!” he murmured, making the sign of the cross.
“Now we will push on, Volodia,” said his companion, when their carriage had rejoined them. “Did you see the shell?”