In the Track of the Troops

by R. M. Ballantyne

When Marika told him of the death of their two children he was not so much overwhelmed as she had anticipated.

“I’m not so sure that you are right, Marika,” he said, after a long sad pause. “That our darling boy is now in heaven I doubt not, for you saw him killed. But you did not see Ivanka killed, and what you call her death-shriek may not have been her last. We must not be too ready to believe the worst. If I had not believed you and them to have been all murdered together, I would not have sought death so recklessly. I will not give up hope in that God who has brought you back, and saved me from death. I think that darling Ivanka is still alive.”

Marika was only too glad to grasp at and hold on to the hope thus held out—feeble though the ground was on which it rested, and it need scarcely be said that she went about her hospital duties after that with a lightness and joy of heart which she had not felt for many a day.

Dobri Petroff’s recovery was now no longer doubtful. Day by day his strength returned, until at last he was dismissed cured.

But it must not be supposed that Dobri was “himself again.” He stood as erect, indeed, and became as sturdy in appearance as he used to be, but there was many a deep-seated injury in his powerful frame which damaged its lithe and graceful motions, and robbed it of its youthful spring.

Returning to the village of Venilik at the conclusion of the armistice, the childless couple proceeded to rebuild their ruined home.

The news of the bold blacksmith’s recovery, and return with his wife to the old desolated home, reached me at a very interesting period of our family history—my sister Bella’s wedding day.

It came through my eccentric friend U. Biquitous, who, after going through the Russo-Turkish war as correspondent of the Evergreen Isle, had proceeded in the same capacity to Greece. After detailing a good many of his adventures, and referring me to the pages of the EI for the remainder of his opinions on things in general, he went on, “By the way, in passing through Bulgaria lately, I fell in with your friend Dobri Petroff, the celebrated scout of the Balkan army. He and his pretty wife send their love, and all sorts of kind messages which I totally forget. Dobri said he supposed you would think he was dead, but he isn’t, and I can assure you looks as if he didn’t mean to die for some time to come. They are both very low, however, about the loss of their children, though they still cling fondly to the belief that their little girl Ivanka has not been killed.”

Here, then, was a piece of news for my mother and family!—for we had regularly adopted Ivanka, and the dear child was to act that very day as one of Bella’s bridesmaids.

I immediately told my mother, but resolved to say nothing to Ivanka, Nicholas, or Bella, till the ceremony was over.