with chagrin. Far from me the intention of describing the siege of
Orenbourg, which belongs to history and not to family memoirs. Suffice
it to say, that this siege was disastrous to the inhabitants, who had
to suffer hunger and privations of every kind. Life at Orenbourg
became insupportable. The decision of fate was awaited with anguish.
Food was scarce; bombshells fell upon the defenseless houses of
citizens. The attacks of Pougatcheff made very little excitement. I
was dying of _ennui_. I had promised Accoulina that I would correspond
with her, but communication was cut off, and I could not send or
receive a letter from Belogorsk. My only pastime consisted in military
sorties. Thanks to Pougatcheff I had an excellent horse, and I shared
my meager pittance with it. I went out every day beyond the ramparts
to skirmish with Pougatcheff's advance guards. The rebels had the best
of it; they had plenty of food and were well mounted. Our poor cavalry
were in no condition to oppose them. Sometimes our half-starved
infantry went into the field; but the depth of the snow hindered them
from acting successfully against the flying cavalry of the enemy. The
artillery vainly thundered from the ramparts, and in the field it could
not advance, because of the weakness of our attenuated horses. This
was our way of making war; this is what the civil service employes of
Orenbourg called prudence and foresight.

One day when we had routed and driven before us quite a large troop, I
overtook a straggling Cossack; my Turkish sabre was uplifted to strike
him when he doffed his cap and cried out: "Good day, Peter, how fares
your health?"

I recognized our Corporal. I was delighted to see him.

"Good day, Maxim. How long since you left Belogorsk?"