'I know where it is,' said Tefik at last. 'Perhaps we can get at it.'
And he left the room quietly.
The two men remaining there did not speak for some time. Trist was occupied with a large sheet of paper covered with a fine writing, and showing columns of figures. Osman had brought this to him, and was now evidently waiting for it. The Englishman skimmed up the columns with the celerity of a banker's clerk, muttering the additions in his native language. The hand that held the pen was brown and scarred with manual labour, for Trist had worked in the trenches day and night.
'Yes,' he said at length, looking up in a business-like, curt way, which showed that between these men there was some bond of comradeship. 'Those figures are all right. At an extremity you could even reduce the allowance of soup, could you not?'
The soldier shook his head with a wan and momentary smile.
'Scarcely,' he replied. 'It is getting colder every day. If we want to hold out we must keep up the hearts of the men, and if there is nothing to press them upwards all our hearts drop into our stomachs, my friend.'
'There is more clothing to be had. We get a fresh supply day by day,' said Trist, with an uneasy sigh.
Osman winced. The meaning was only too clear, for the time had long since gone by for men to scruple over stripping the dead for the benefit of the living.
'Yes. You are right.'
With these words the commander of Plevna turned to go.