As he was still discoursing, a man dashed in like a whirlwind, puffing, perspiring, but rubbing his hands in satisfaction.
“Ah, I have just finished a good job! Fifteen of them, all officers! The boys got them like that,” and he bowed and made a sign across the legs. “The first volley peppered their legs and threw them in a heap on the ground. Then they were bayoneted and slashed to pieces. Ha, ha, ha! There were five others captured with them, cadets. They tried to escape and the good fellows gouged their eyes out!”
I was petrified. The newcomer was of middle height, heavily built, and dressed in an officer’s uniform but without the epaulets. He looked savage, and his hideous laughter sent shudders up my spine. The bloodthirsty brute! Even Petrukhin’s face turned pale at his entrance. He was no less a person than the assistant to the Commander-in-Chief of the Bolshevik Army. His name was Pugatchov.
He did not notice me at first, so absorbed was in the story of the slaughter of the fifteen officers.
“And here we have a celebrity,” Petrukhin said, pointing at me.
The Assistant Commander made a step forward in military fashion, stared at me for an instant and then cried out in a terrifying voice:
“Botchkareva!”
He was beside himself with joy.
“Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed diabolically. “Under the old régime. I should have received an award of the first class for capturing such a spy! I will run out and tell the soldiers and sailors the good news. They will know how to take care of her. Ha, ha, ha!”
I arose horror-stricken. I wanted to say something but was speechless. Petrukhin was greatly horrified too. He ran after Pugatchov, seized him by the arm, and shouted: