On the 24th of July, Captain Khlopof in epaulets and cap—a style of dress in which I had not seen him since my arrival in the Caucasus—entered the low door of my earth-hut.
"I'm just from the colonel's," he said in reply to my questioning look; "to-morrow our battalion is to move."
"Where?" I asked.
"To N——. The troops have been ordered to muster at that place."
"And probably some expedition will be made from there?"
"Of course."
"In what direction, think you?"
"I don't think. I tell you all I know. Last night a Tatar from the general came galloping up,—brought orders for the battalion to march, taking two days' rations. But whither, why, how long, isn't for them to ask. Orders are to go—that's enough."
"Still, if they are going to take only two days' rations, it's likely the army will not stay longer."
"That's no argument at all."
"And how is that?" I asked with astonishment.
"This is the way of it: When they went against Dargi they took a week's rations, but they spent almost a month."
"And can I go with you?" I asked, after a short silence.
"Yes, you can go; but my advice is—better not. Why run the risk?"
