"Your health," said Nikoláïef, coming to me. "The captain begs you to be so kind as to come and drink tea with him."
Somehow making my way between stacks of arms and the camp-fires, I followed Nikoláïef to where Captain Bolkhof was, and felt a glow of satisfaction in dreaming about the glass of hot tea and the gay converse which should drive away my gloomy thoughts.
"Well, has he come?" said Bolkhof's voice from his cornstalk wigwam, in which the light was gleaming.
"He is here, your honor,"[15] replied Nikoláïef in his deep bass.
In the hut, on a dry burka, or Cossack mantle, sat the captain in négligé, and without his cap. Near him the samovar was singing, and a drum was standing, loaded with lunch. A bayonet stuck into the ground held a candle.
"How is this?" he said with some pride, glancing around his comfortable habitation. In fact, it was so pleasant in his wigwam, that, while we were at tea I absolutely forgot about the dampness, the gloom, and Velenchúk's wound. We talked about Moscow and subjects that had no relation to the war or the Caucasus.
After one of the moments of silence which sometimes interrupt the most lively conversations, Bolkhof looked at me with a smile.
"Well, I suppose our talk this morning must have seemed very strange to you?" said he.
"No. Why should it? It only seemed to me that you were very frank; but there are things which we all know, but which it is not necessary to speak about."
"Oh, you are mistaken! If there were only some possibility of exchanging this life for any sort of life, no matter how tame and mean, but free from danger and service, I would not hesitate a minute."