"Don't make us more sad. Almazoff, you're the only fellow among us who can read: read us something out of your English book; the piece about the great fight in heaven; that's the stuff for a soldier."
Almazoff took from his pocket a dirty dog-eared paper-covered book, and turned over the leaves. Having found the place, he began, in a slow sonorous chant—
"Then rose a storming fury, and such uproar as never yet had been heard in Heaven. Arms clashed on armour, a din of horrible discord; the furious wheels of brazen chariots roared with rage; dire was the noise of battle. Overhead with awesome hiss flew fiery darts in flaming volleys, and their flight covered either host with a vault of fire. Beneath this burning dome the embattled armies shocked together, with deadly onset and unquenchable rage: all Heaven resounded; and had earth been then, the whole earth had quivered to her centre. What wonder, when on both sides millions of angels fought, fierce foes, of whom the feeblest could wield the elements and arm himself with the might of all their regions!——"
Thus he read on, and through the rough prose of the Russian translation Jack caught echoes of the famous passage in Paradise Lost.
Far into the night the reading, story-telling, singing, went on. In the morning Jack took leave of the simple brave fellows and resumed his journey. On the way he learnt that the Russian army was in full retreat. General Kuropatkin's able dispositions had extricated his worn troops from the danger of being surrounded, and they were falling back in good order, disappointed but not disheartened, towards Moukden. Thither Jack made with all speed; and entering the city with Hi Lo by one of the south gates in the evening, he found Schwab placidly smoking his pipe at the door of the Green Dragon.
CHAPTER XIII
Mr. Brown's House
Schwab and Sowinski—Extempore—The Camera cannot Lie—Sowinski Suspicious—Shadowed—Short Notice—Run to Earth—A Hole in the Fence—Lares et Penates—The Press—Sowinski's Supper
Weeks passed. Moukden was no longer the city Jack had known. Hitherto but few Russian troops had been seen in its streets; now these were thronged from morning till night. Regimental wagons, ammunition carts, rumbled hither and thither, raising clouds of dust. Officers strolled about, buying knick-knacks of the curio dealers; war correspondents kicked their heels in the hotels; droshkies, rickshaws, troikas, flew this way and that, to the disturbance of the placid people of this ancient city.
There were already signs of winter in the streets. The seasons in Manchuria do not shade off one into another; summer heat stops, almost at one stride comes winter cold. One morning the shops in the principal streets were hung with furs—the skins of wild cats, foxes, martens, otters, sheep, raccoons; fur caps, lined coats, woollen hoods, sheepskin leggings, stockings of camel's hair. The Chinese merchants near the eastern ramparts plied a brisk trade with Russian officers, offering their customers cups of tea with true oriental politeness, and raising their prices a hundred per cent.