Tells More of what Occasionally Happens in the Track of Troops.  
As we advanced towards the high lands the scenery became more beautiful and picturesque. Rich fields of grain waved on every side. Pretty towns, villages, and hamlets seemed to me to lie everywhere, smiling in the midst of plenty; in short, all that the heart of man could desire was there in superabundance, and as one looked on the evidences of plenty, one naturally associated it with the idea of peace.
 
But as that is not all gold which glitters, so the signs of plenty do not necessarily tell of peace. Here and there, as we passed over the land, we had evidences of this in burned homesteads and trampled fields, which had been hurriedly reaped of their golden store as if by the sword rather than the sickle. As we drew near to the front these signs of war became more numerous.
 
We had not much time, however, to take note of them; our special service required hard riding and little rest.
 
One night we encamped on the margin of a wood. It was very dark, for, although the moon was nearly full, thick clouds effectually concealed her, or permitted only a faint ray to escape now and then, like a gleam of hope from the battlements of heaven.
 
I wandered from one fire to another to observe the conduct of the men in bivouac. They were generally light-hearted, being very young and hopeful. Evidently their great desire was to meet with the enemy. Whatever thoughts they might have had of home, they did not at that time express them aloud. Some among them, however, were grave and sad; a few were stern—almost sulky.
 
Such was Dobri Petroff that night. Round his fire, among others, stood Sergeant Gotsuchakoff and Corporal Shoveloff.
 
“Come, scout,” said the corporal, slapping Petroff heartily on the shoulder, “don’t be down-hearted, man. That pretty little sweetheart you left behind you will never forsake such a strapping fellow as you; she will wait till you return crowned with laurels.”
 
Petroff was well aware that Corporal Shoveloff, knowing nothing of his private history, had made a mere guess at the “little sweetheart,” and having no desire to be communicative, met him in his own vein.
 
“It’s not that, corporal,” he said, with a serious yet anxious air, which attracted the attention of the surrounding soldiers, “it’s not that which troubles me. I’m as sure of the pretty little sweetheart as I am that the sun will rise to-morrow; but there’s my dear old mother that lost a leg last Christmas by the overturning of a sledge, an’ my old father who’s been bedridden for the last quarter of a century, and the brindled cow that’s just recovering from the measles. How they are all to get on without me, and nobody left to look after them but an old sister as tall as myself, and in the last stages of a decline—”
 
At this point the scout, as Corporal Shoveloff had dubbed him, was interrupted by a roar of laughter from his comrades, in which the “corporal” joined heartily.
 
“Well, well,” said the latter, who was not easily quelled either mentally or physically, “I admit that you have good cause for despondency; nevertheless a man like you ought to keep up his spirits—if it were only for the sake of example to young fellows, now, like André Yanovitch there, who seems to have buried all his relatives before starting for the wars.”
 
The youth on whom Shoveloff tried to turn the laugh of his own discomfiture was a splendid fellow, tall and broad-shouldered enough for a man of twenty-five, though his smooth and youthful face suggested sixteen. He had been staring at the fire, regardless of what was going on around.
 
“What did you say?” he cried, starting up and reddening violently.
 
“Come, come, corporal,” said Sergeant Gotsuchakoff, interposing, “no insinuations. André Yanovitch will be ten times the man you are when he attains to your advanced age.—Off with that kettle, lads; it must be more than cooked by this time, and there is nothing so bad for digestion as overdone meat.”
 
It chanced that night, after the men were rolled in their cloaks, that Dobri Petroff found himself lying close to André under the same bush.
 
“You don’t sleep,” he said, observing that the young soldier moved frequently. “Thinking of home, like me, no doubt?”
 
“That was all nonsense,” said the youth sharply, “about the cow, and your mother and sister, wasn’t it?”
 
“Of course it was. Do you think I was going to give a straight answer to a fool like Shoveloff?”
 
“But you have left a mother behind you, I suppose?” said André, in a low voice.
 
“No, lad, no; my mother died when I was but a child, and has left naught but the memory of an angel on my mind.”
 
The scout said no more for a time, but the tone of his voice had opened the heart of the young dragoon. After a short silence he ventured to ask a few more questions. The scout replied cheerfully, and, from one thing to another, they went on until, discovering that they were sympathetic spirits, they became confidante, and each told to the other his whole history.
 
That of the young dragoon was short and simple, but sad. He had been chosen, he said, for service from a rural district, and sent to the war without reference to the fact that he was the only support of an invalid mother, whose husband had died the previous year. He had an elder brother who ought to have filled his place, but who, being given to drink, did not in any way fulfil his duties as a son. There was also, it was true, a young girl, the daughter of a neighbour, who had done her best to help and comfort his mother at all times, but without the aid of his strong hand that girl’s delicate fingers could not support his mother, despite the willingness of her brave heart, and thus he had left them hurriedly at the sudden and peremptory call of Government.
 
“That young girl,” said Petroff, after listening to the lad’s earnest account of the matter with sympathetic attention, “has no place there, has she?”—he touched the left breast of André’s coat and nodded.
 
The blush of the young soldier was visible even in the dim light of the camp-fire as he started up on one elbow, and said—
 
“Well, yes; she has a place there!”
 
He drew out a small gilt locket as he spoke, and, opening it, displayed a lock of soft auburn hair.
 
“I never spoke to her about it,” he continued, in a low tone, “till the night we parted. She is very modest, you must know, and I never dared to speak to her before, but I became desperate that night, and told her all, and she confessed her love for me. Oh, Petroff, if I could only have had one day more of—of—but the sergeant would not wait. I had to go to the wars. One evening in paradise is but a short time, yet I would not exchange it for all I ever—” He paused.
 
“Yes, yes, I know all about that,” said the scout, with an encouraging nod; “I’ve had more than one evening in that region, and so will you, lad, after the war is over.”
 
“I’m not so sure of that,” returned the dragoon sadly; “however, she gave me this lock of her hair—she is called ‘Maria with the auburn hair’ at our place—and mother gave me the locket to put it in. I noticed that she took some grey hair out when she did so.”
 
“Keep it, lad; keep it always near your heart,” said the scout, with sudden enthusiasm, as the youth replaced and buttoned up his treasure; “it will save you, mayhap, like a charm, in the hour of temptation.”
 
“I don’t need that advice,” returned the soldier, with a quiet smile, as he once more laid his head on his saddle.
 
Soon the noise in our little camp ceased, and, ere long, every man was asleep except the sentinels.
 
Towards morning one of these observed a man approaching at full speed. As he came near the sentinel threw forward his carbine and challenged. The man stopped and looked about him like a startled hare, then, without reply, turned sharply to the left and dashed off. The sentinel fired. Of course we all sprang up, and the fugitive, doubling again to avoid another sentinel, almost leaped into the arms of André Yanovitch, who held him as if in a vice, until he ceased his struggles, and sank exhausted with a deep............