"He was crouched down like a quail. Lieutenant Vassilieff told us to take him alive and to bring him to you, Colonel. His name is Mahmoud."
"Give us a light, Panteleieff."
The Cossack held his torch near the group and the red light showed distinctly a face with a large nose and straggling grey moustaches. The nose had a lump in the middle; the reddish scar of a recent wound was visible on the forehead surmounted by a turban formed of a piece of dirty cloth snatched from some old tent. Mahmoud also wore a yellow cloak made of camel-skin.
"Stop! Stop! he is an officer," said the Colonel, turning towards his friend.
The Major looked at the Turk attentively. "Yes, and he is also an old acquaintance. Don't you recognize him. That scar to begin with, and I am sure he has two fingers missing from his left hand. Show us his left hand."
The soldier who was standing next to Mahmoud took hold of his hand and held it up.
"Yes, it is Mahmoud Bey, a Turkish Colonel. Prisoner and runaway; his account is settled. The general will probably have him shot. That depends on the mood he is in. It is a pity. Bring him here, my children. One of you stay with us; the rest go as quickly as possible."
Mahmoud Bey was brought into the room next to the balcony. A soldier armed with a musket stationed himself on the threshold.
The prisoner was almost a giant, thickset and broad-shouldered. He appeared to be over fifty. His eyes had a melancholy expression under their bristling grey eyebrows; his ragged moustache, also grey, was constantly twitching; his feet were bound round with rags, his cloak was torn and had a blood-stain on one shoulder.
"What is this blood?"