“The General’s orders are . . . that you . . . should go . . . quickly . . . and especially quietly . . . back—no, not back, but to the reserves,” said Praskouhin, looking askance in the direction of the enemy’s fire.
Having recognised Praskouhin and made out what was wanted, Mihaylof dropped his hand and passed on the order. The battalion became alert, the men took up their muskets, put on their cloaks, and set out.
No one, without experiencing it, can imagine the delight a man feels when, after three hours’ bombardment, he leaves so dangerous a spot as the lodgments. During those three hours Mihaylof, who more than once—and not without reason—had thought his end at hand, had had time to accustom himself to the conviction that he would certainly be killed, and that he no longer belonged
