In the center of the group a boy of fourteen or fifteen years stood
talking excitedly. He was tall, dark as an Italian, and dressed with
the greatest richness. Two rings set with great jewels flashed on his
hand and while he spoke, he tapped his polished boot with a small cane
in the end of which was set a huge, sparkling red stone. He spoke with
great rapidity, in the pure Russian of the Court, and addressed himself
to an elderly man who sat drooping in an attitude of hopeless sorrow.

Near them sat a plainly dressed woman who buried her stained face in
her apron, and wept the hard sobs of those who can scarcely weep more.
A young girl clung to her, silent but with beautiful dark eyes wild
with terror and loss. On the floor lay a wounded soldier, bearing in
perfect silence the frightful pain of a shattered shoulder. His only
bandage was a piece of cloth wound tightly around his coat, but not a
groan escaped his pale lips. At the window, gazing down into the
wrecked street, stood a tall boy of perhaps fifteen years. His face
was bloodless; his strong mouth was set in a straight line; the hand
resting on the window sill was clenched until the knuckles shone white
through the tanned skin. Desperation, horror, and grief struggled
equally in his face. His left arm encircled a boy nearly his own
size. He, like the woman, sobbed brokenly, and the taller boy patted
him as he listened to the rapid words of the boy who was talking.

Suddenly the elderly man spoke.

"You must pardon me, Ivanovich," he said in a trembling voice. "I do
not seen to comprehend. Will you kindly repeat your account?"

A flash of anger passed over the face of the young nobleman; then he
spoke courteously.