Sometimes
our famished infantry took the field, but the depth of the snow
prevented action with any success against the flying cavalry of the
enemy. The artillery thundered vainly from the height of the ramparts,
and in the field guns could not work because of the weakness of the
worn-out horses. This is how we made war, and this is what the officials
of Orenburg called prudence and foresight.
One day, when we had succeeded in dispersing and driving before us a
rather numerous band, I came up with one of the hindmost Cossacks, and I
was about to strike him with my Turkish sabre when he took off his cap
and cried--
"Good day, Petr' Andrejitch; how is your health?"
I recognized our "_ouriadnik_." I cannot say how glad I was to see him.
"Good day, Maximitch," said I, "is it long since you left Belogorsk?"
"No, not long, my little father, Petr' Andrejitch; I only came back
yesterday. I have a letter for you."
"Where is it?" I cried, overjoyed.
"I have got it," rejoined Maximitch, putting his hand into his breast.
"I promised Palashka to give it to you."
He handed me a folded paper, and immediately darted off at full gallop.
I opened it and read with emotion the following lines--
"It has pleased God to deprive me at once of my father and my mother.
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