the dictates of prudence. Crawling through the snow they crept up to the
fence of dry branches which generally encloses a village in that part
of Lithuania. What they expected to get and in what manner, and whether
this expectation was worth the risk, goodness only knows. However, these
Cossack parties, in most cases wandering without an officer, were known
to guard themselves badly and often not at all. In addition, the village
lying at a great distance from the line of French retreat, they could
not suspect the presence of stragglers from the Grand Army. The three
officers had strayed away in a blizzard from the main column and
had been lost for days in the woods, which explains sufficiently the
terrible straits to which they were reduced. Their plan was to try and
attract the attention of the peasants in that one of the huts which was
nearest to the enclosure; but as they were preparing to venture into
the very jaws of the lion, so to speak, a dog (it is mighty strange
that there was but one), a creature quite as formidable under the
circumstances as a lion, began to bark on the other side of the
fence. . . .

At this stage of the narrative, which I heard many times (by request)
from the lips of Captain Nicholas B.'s sister-in-law, my grandmother, I
used to tremble with excitement.

The dog barked. And if he had done no more than bark three officers of
the Great Napoleon's army would have perished honourably on the points
of Cossack's lances, or perchance escaping the chase would have died
decently of starvation. But before they had time to think of running
away, that fatal and revolting dog, being carried away by the excess of
his zeal, dashed out through a gap in the fence. He dashed out and
died. His head, I understand, was severed at one blow from his body.
I understand also that later on, within the gloomy solitudes of the