"His lordship fears that you are going too far in advance," said he, "and that the Russian flying artillery may halt and open on you. Give up all pursuit of prisoners; set loose those you have, and simply escort the guns."
On this we halted and liberated more than a hundred prisoners of all ranks, several being officers. Some of the latter shrugged their shoulders contemptuously at the commiseration we expressed for some of the Russian wounded, who lay on the road expiring of weakness and thirst.
"Bah!" said one, in French, to me; "they are only private soldiers—peasants—and will soon die."
His sentiments were worthy of a Russian aristocrat; but he was a grim, stern, and white-moustached officer, evidently of high rank, for his breast was covered from epaulette to epaulette with stars, medals, and crosses.
I had afterwards reason to know that this officer was General Baur, who had commanded the reconnaisance at Bulganak.
As we were retiring, we came among some of the French, and I recognised Mademoiselle Sophie, the vivandière whom I had seen at Gallipoli and Varna, and who immediately offered me a petit verre of cognac from her little store, which I gladly accepted. She looked pale and excited, and her eyes were bloodshot.
"Our regiment has suffered heavily to-day, monsieur," said she. "I was thrice under fire with it; but so many of my comrades fell—that—that—mon Dieu! it proved too much for me."
"Your friend, M. Jolicoeur, of the 2nd Zouaves," said I; "he, I hope, has escaped to-day?"
"Hélas! mon pauvre Jules! he is lying yonder with ever so many more of ours," she replied, pointing with her trembling hand to the Telegraph Battery.
"Wounded?"