A night of drunkenness, of horror, had passed in the Belgian chateau.
The captors had damaged—broken—destroyed.
The sun was setting on a second day—when Igor awoke.
The first time in his life he awakened from drink. He reached out expecting to find the rough wall of the monastery
He felt a dead body—the sharp edge of a sabre—
Where—
Orders had come
The army
Had there been battles—