The bushes are stirring and rustling, as if they were talking among themselves. “You will die, you will die, you will die!” they whisper. “You will not see, you will not see, you will not see!” answer the bushes on the other side.
“No, you will not see them here!” I hear a loud voice quite near.
I tremble and at once come to myself. I look up, to find the good blue eyes of our corporal Yakovlev looking at me.
“Spades!” he cries out. “There are two more of them here—and one of them is theirs!”
“There is no need for spades, no need to bury me; I’m alive!” I wish to cry out; but only a feeble groan issues from my parched lips.
“Lord! But he is alive! Barin[1] Ivanov! Children, come this way! Our Barin is alive! And bring the doctor, quick!”
Presently I feel the pleasant contact in my mouth of water, whiskey, and of something else. Then everything disappears.
The stretcher sways with a measured motion. This motion is soothing. Now I recall myself, now everything lapses from my memory. The bandaged wounds no longer hurt. An inexpressible feeling of comfort has diffused itself through my entire body....
“Hal-t! L-lo-wer! Fresh hands to the stretchers! Now get hold—lift—march!”
The command is issued by Peter Ivanich, our sanitary officer, a tall, lean, and very kindly man. He is so tall that as I turn my eyes in his direction I can see his head, his peculiar long beard, and his shoulders, although the stretcher is being carried on the shoulders of four big men.