“Dolzhnikoff!” he exclaimed.
“Here,” replied the soldier, opening his eyes, and pulling off his cap, in such a thick and halting bass voice that it seemed as though twenty soldiers had uttered an exclamation at one and the same time.
“When were you wounded, brother?”
The leaden and swimming eyes of the soldier grew animated; he evidently recognized his officer.
“I wish Your Honor health!” he began again, in the same abrupt bass as before.
“Where is the regiment stationed now?”
“It was stationed in Sevastopol, but they were to move on Wednesday, Your Honor.”
“Where to?”
“I don't know; it must have been to the Sivernaya, Your Honor! To-day, Your Honor,” he added, in a drawling voice, as he put on his cap, “they have begun to fire clear across, mostly with bombs, that even go as far as the bay; they are fighting horribly to-day, so that—”
It was impossible to hear what the soldier said further; but it was evident, from the expression of his countenance and from his attitude, that he was uttering discouraging remarks, with the touch of malice of a man who is suffering.