There was no time to say good-bye to his parents, nor could he have paid his fare to and from the village had permission been given. So Ivan took out his little brass cross, his "ikon," which, like every other Russian soldier, he carried in his bosom, and murmured a prayer for father and sisters and the little mother. Then he buckled on his belt, adjusted his clumsy cap, shouldered his musket and was ready.
"Where are we going, comrade?" he asked of his next neighbour in the ranks, as they marched to the railway station.
"I do not know. They say there is to be war."
"War—against whom?"
"The Japanese."
"Japanese? Who are they? Are they savages or white like us?"
"I can't tell you, Ivan. We shall know when we see them."
"Why do we fight against them? Where do they live?"
But his comrade could only shrug his shoulders. He had not the least idea of the answer to either question; nor had any man in the company, only a half-dozen of whom could read or write.