“There is none!”
Suddenly one of the soldiers pushed out of the rank and gave a canteen,—
“Here is some; give it to him.”
“To the rank!” commanded Glovbich.
Still the man in the short shuba held the canteen to Soroka’s mouth; he drank abundantly, and after he had drunk breathed deeply.
“See!” said he, “the lot of a soldier after thirty years’ service. Well, if it is time, it is time!”
Another executioner approached and they began to undress him.
A moment of silence. The torches trembled in the hands of those holding them; it became terrible for all.
Meanwhile from the ranks surrounding the square was wrested a murmur of dissatisfaction, which became louder each instant: “A soldier is not an executioner; he gives death himself, but does not wish to see torture.”
“Silence!” cried Glovbich.