The flap of the tent was open, and I saw against the faint grey glimmering of the wintry morning’s struggling dawn a figure stealthily bending over the wounded man who lay asleep at my side.
The intruder wore the heavy greatcoat and round cap of a Cossack officer, and was evidently searching my comrade’s pockets.
“Who are you? What do you want?” I cried in Russian, clutching my revolver.
The man started, withdrew his hand, and stood upright, looking down upon me. For a moment I fixed my eyes upon the statuesque figure, and gazed at him amazed. I am not by any means a nervous man, but there was something weird about the fellow’s appearance.
Whether it was due to the suddenness with which I had discovered him, or whether some peculiar phenomenon was caused by his presence, I was unable to determine.
I remember asking myself if I were really awake, and becoming convinced that I was in possession of all my faculties.
“Speak!” I said sternly. “Speak—or I’ll fire!”
Raising the weapon, I waited for a moment.
The figure remained motionless, facing the muzzle of the pistol unflinchingly.
Again I repeated my challenge. There was, however, no reply.