They were right.  Already, as will appear in a later chapter, he was dreaming of the conquest of India; and, like Napoleon, he could not only see visions but also master details, from the principles of strategy to the routine of camp life, which made those visions realisable.  If ambition spurred him on towards Delhi, hatred of things Teutonic pointed him to Berlin.  Ill would it have fared with the peace of the world had this champion of the Slavonic race lived out his life.  But his fiery nature wore out its tenement, the baser passions, so it is said, contributing to hasten the end of one who lived his true life only amidst the smoke of battle.  In war he was sublime.  Having recently came from Central Asia, he was at first unattached to any corps, and roved about in search of the fiercest fighting.  His insight and skill had warded off a deadly flank attack on Schahofski’s shattered corps at Plevna on July 30, and his prowess had contributed largely to the capture of Lovtcha on September 3.  War correspondents, who knew their craft, turned to follow Skobeleff, wherever official reports might otherwise direct them; and the lust of fighting laid hold of the grey columns when they saw the “white general” approach.

On September 11 Prince Imeritinski and Skobeleff (the order should be inverted) commanded the extreme left of the Russian line, attacking Plevna from the south.  Having four regiments of the line and four battalions of sharpshooters—­about 12,000 men in all—­he ranged them at the foot of the hill, whose summit was crowned by an all-important redoubt-the “Kavanlik.”  There were four others that flanked the approach.  When the Russian guns had thoroughly cleared the way for an assault, he ordered the bands to play and the two leading regiments to charge up the slope.  Keeping his hand firmly on the pulse of the battle, he saw them begin to waver under the deadly fire of the Turks; at once he sent up a rival regiment; the new mass carried on the charge until it too threatened to die away.  The fourth regiment struggled up into that wreath of death, and with the like result.

[Illustration:  Plan of Plevna.]

Then Skobeleff called on his sharpshooters to drive home the onset.  Riding on horseback before the invigorating lines, he swept on the stragglers and waverers until all of them came under the full blast of the Turkish flames vomited from the redoubt.  There his sword fell, shivered in his hand, and his horse rolled over at the very verge of the fosse.  Fierce as ever, the leader sprang to his feet, waved the stump in air, and uttered a shout which put fresh heart into his men.  With him they swarmed into the fosse, up the bank, and fell on the defenders.  The bayonet did the rest, taking deadly revenge for the murderous volleys.