He stopped abruptly, swayed a moment to and fro, then fell heavily forward with his head on the bosom of his friend.
“Take some more water, Dobri,” said Nicholas anxiously. “Quick, before you lose consciousness. I have not power to move a limb to help you.—Dobri!”
He called in vain,—the scout had fainted.
Nicholas had not power at first to remove the poor fellow’s head from his chest, and he felt as if he should be suffocated. By degrees, however, he managed to roll it slightly to one side, and, at the same time, returning vigour enabled him to raise his right arm. He observed that his hand still grasped a revolver, but for some time he had no power to unclasp it. At last he succeeded, and raising Petroff’s flask with difficulty to his lips obtained another draught.
Just at that moment the moon, which had passed behind a dark cloud, shone through an opening, and he saw three men not far off searching among the dead. He was about to call to them, but a thought occurred and he restrained himself.
He was right; the three men, one of whom was habited like a priest, were rifling the dead. He saw them come up to a prostrate form which struggled on being touched. One of the three men instantly drew a knife and stabbed the wounded man. When they had searched the body and taken from it what they required they came towards the spot where Nicholas lay.
A feeling of horror came over him for a moment, but that seemed to give him strength, for he instantly grasped his revolver. Hoping, however that they might pass without observing him, he shut his eyes and lay quite still.
The three murderers drew near, talking in low tones, and seemed about to pass, when one of them stopped.
“Here’s a big-looking fellow whose boots will just fit me,” he said, stooping and seizing the scout’s leg.
“There’s an officer behind him,” said the villain in the priest’s dress; “he will be more worth stripping.”