I could see at once that he was leading this resplendent vision by the arm.  Then I saw that he was holding it up.  While I stared and stared, they crept on—­for indeed they were creeping—­and at last they crept into the light of our bivouac fire and passed beyond the log I was sitting on.  The blaze played on the helmet.  It was extremely battered and the frost-bitten face, full of sores, under it was framed in bits of mangy fur.  No God of War this, but a French officer.  The great white cuirassier’s cloak was torn, burnt full of holes.  His feet were wrapped up in old sheepskins over remnants of boots.  They looked monstrous and he tottered on them, sustained by Tomassov who lowered him most carefully on to the log on which I sat.

“My amazement knew no bounds.

“‘You have brought in a prisoner,’ I said to Tomassov, as if I could not believe my eyes.

“You must understand that unless they surrendered in large bodies we made no prisoners.  What would have been the good?  Our Cossacks either killed the stragglers or else let them alone, just as it happened.  It came really to the same thing in the end.

“Tomassov turned to me with a very troubled look.

“‘He sprang up from the ground somewhere as I was leaving the outpost,’ he said.  ’I believe he was making for it, for he walked blindly into my horse.  He got hold of my leg and of course none of our chaps dared touch him then.’

“‘He had a narrow escape,’ I said.

“‘He didn’t appreciate it,’ said Tomassov, looking even more troubled than before.  ’He came along holding to my stirrup leather.  That’s what made me so late.  He told me he was a staff officer; and then talking in a voice such, I suppose, as the damned alone use, a croaking of rage and pain, he said he had a favour to beg of me.  A supreme favour.  Did I understand him, he asked in a sort of fiendish whisper.

“‘Of course I told him that I did.  I said:  oui, je vous comprends.’

“‘Then,’ said he, ‘do it.  Now!  At once—­in the pity of your heart.’

“Tomassov ceased and stared queerly at me above the head of the prisoner.

“I said, ‘What did he mean?’

“‘That’s what I asked him,’ answered Tomassov in a dazed tone, ’and he said that he wanted me to do him the favour to blow his brains out.  As a fellow soldier he said.  ‘As a man of feeling—­as—­as a humane man.’

“The prisoner sat between us like an awful gashed mummy as to the face, a martial scarecrow, a grotesque horror of rags and dirt, with awful living eyes, full of vitality, full of unquenchable fire, in a body of horrible affliction, a skeleton at the feast of glory.  And suddenly those shining unextinguishable eyes of his became fixed upon Tomassov.  He, poor fellow, fascinated, returned the ghastly stare of a suffering soul in that mere husk of a man.  The prisoner croaked at him in French.

“’I recognize, you know.  You are her Russian youngster.  You were very grateful.  I call on you to pay the debt.  Pay it, I say, with one liberating shot.  You are a man of honour.  I have not even a broken sabre.  All my being recoils from my own degradation.  You know me.’