The other tries to smile. His big, fine teeth gleam white.
"We are Don Cossacks. We do not surrender. But we have had nothing to eat. It is four days already. The horses are dead. And the Russians are already far away."
"How many are you?" asks the commandant.
"We were strong, six sontnias, perhaps. But the woods, the woods! There we stick day and night. And fight and fight. Each for himself, each alone, each without hope."
Our captain presses the wounded man, who seeks to raise his upper body, softly back on the ground.
And while the wood right and left rings with the echoes of musketry he kneels hesitatingly beside the Cossack officer. For the first time something of a soft expression steals over his impassive countenance. There is a slight quiver about the curves of his mouth.
"You must surrender," he says, after a pause, curtly and decisively. "It is an unequal combat."
The Russian shakes his head.
"They will not; we will not. We are Don Cossacks."