There is no saying what happened after that. There is but one horse in
the White Hussars, and his portrait hangs outside the door of the mess
room. He is the piebald drum-horse the king of the regimental band,
that served the regiment for seven-and-thirty years, and in the end was
shot for old age. Half the mess tore the thing down from its place and
thrust it into the man's hands. He placed it above the mantelpiece; it
clattered on the ledge, as his poor hands dropped it, and he staggered
toward the bottom of the table, falling into Mildred's chair. The band
began to play the "River of Years" waltz, and the laughter from the
gardens came into the tobacco-scented mess room. But nobody, even the
youngest, was thinking of waltzes. They all spoke to one another
something after this fashion: "The drum-horse hasn't hung over the
mantelpiece since '67." "How does he know?" "Mildred, go and speak to
him again." "Colonel, what are you going to do?" "Oh, dry up, and give
the poor devil a chance to pull himself together!" "It isn't possible,
anyhow. The man's a lunatic."
Little Mildred stood at the colonel's side talking into his ear. "Will
you be good enough to take your seats, please, gentlemen?" he said, and
the mess dropped into the chairs.
Only Dirkovitch's seat, next to Little Mildred's, was blank, and Little
Mildred himself had found Hira Singh's place. The wide-eyed mess
sergeant filled the glasses in dead silence. Once more the colonel
rose, but his hand shook, and the port spilled on the table as he
looked straight at the man in Little Mildred's chair and said,
hoarsely, "Mr. Vice, the Queen." There was a little pause, but the man
sprang to his feet and answered, without hesitation, "The Queen, God
bless her!" and as he emptied the thin glass he snapped the shank
between his fingers.
Long and long ago, when the Empress of India was a young woman, and
there were no unclean ideals in the land, it was the custom in a few
messes to drink the Queen's toast in broken glass, to the huge delight
of the mess contractors. The custom is now dead, because there is
nothing to break anything for, except now and again the word of a
government, and that has been broken already.
"That settles it," said the colonel, with a gasp. "He's not a sergeant.
What in the world is he?"
The entire mess echoed the word, and the volley of questions would have
scared any man. Small wonder that the ragged, filthy invader could only
smile and shake his head.
From under the table, calm and smiling urbanely[17], rose Dirkovitch,
who had been roused from healthful slumber by feet upon his body. By
the side of the man he rose, and the man shrieked and groveled at his
feet. It was a horrible sight, coming so swiftly upon the pride and
glory of the toast that had brought the strayed wits together.
Dirkovitch made no offer to raise him, but Little Mildred heaved him up
in an instant. It is not good that a gentleman who can answer to the
Queen's toast should lie at the feet of a subaltern of Cossacks.
The hasty action tore the wretch's upper clothing nearly to the waist,
and his body was seamed with dry black scars. There is only one weapon
in the world that cuts in parallel lines, and it is neither the cane
nor the cat. Dirkovitch saw the marks, and the pupils of his eyes
dilated—also, his face changed. He said something that sounded like
"Shto ve takete"; and the man, fawning, answered, "Chetyre."
"What's that?" said everybody together.
"His number. That is number four, you know." Dirkovitch spoke very
thickly.
"What has a Queen's officer to do with a qualified number?" said the
colonel, and there rose an unpleasant growl round the table.
"How can I tell?" said the affable Oriental, with a sweet smile. "He is
a—how you have it?—escape—runaway, from over there."
He nodded toward the darkness of the night.
"Speak to him, if he'll answer you, and speak to him gently," said
Little Mildred, settling the man in a chair. It seemed most improper to
all present that Dirkovitch. should sip brandy as he talked in purring,
spitting Russian to the creature who answered so feebly and with such
evident dread. But since Dirkovitch appeared to understand, no man said
a word. They breathed heavily, leaning forward, in the long gaps of the
conversation. The next time that they have no engagements on hand the
White Hussars intend to go to St. Petersburg and learn Russian.
"He does not know how many years ago," said Dirkovitch, facing the
mess, "but he says it was very long ago, in a war, I think that there
was an accident. He says he was of this glorious and distinguished
regiment in the war."
"The rolls! The rolls! Holmer, get the rolls!" said Little Mildred, and
the adjutant dashed off bareheaded to the orderly room where the rolls
of the regiment were kept. He returned just in time to hear Dirkovitch
conclude, "Therefore I am most sorry to say there was an accident,
which would have been, reparable if he had apologized to our colonel,
whom he had insulted."
Another growl, which the colonel tried to beat down. The mess was in no
mood to weigh insults to Russian colonels just then.
"He does not remember, but I think that there was an accident, and so
he was not exchanged among the prisoners, but he was sent to another
place—how do you say?—the country. _So_, he says, he came here. He does
not know how he came. Eh? He _was_ at Chepany[18]"—the man caught the
word, nodded, and shivered—"at Zhigansk[19] and Irkutsk[20]. I cannot
understand how he escaped. He says, too, that he was in the forests for
many years, but how many years he has forgotten—that with many things.
It was an accident; done because he did not apologise to our colonel.
Ah!"
Instead of echoing Dirkovitch's sigh of regret, it is sad to record
that the White Hussars livelily exhibited unchristian delight and other
emotions, hardly restrained by their sense of hospitality. Holmer flung
the frayed and yellow regimental rolls on the table, and the men flung
themselves atop of these.
"Steady! Fifty-six—fifty-five—fifty-four," said Holmer. "Here we are.
'Lieutenant Austin Limmason—_missing_.' That was before Sebastopol[21].
What an infernal shame! Insulted one of their colonels, and was quietly
shipped off. Thirty years of his life wiped out."
"But he never apologized. Said he'd see him——first," chorussed the
mess.
"Poor devil! I suppose he never had the chance afterward. How did he
come here?" said the colonel.
The dingy heap in the chair could give no answer.
"Do you know who you are?"
It laughed weakly.
"Do you know that you are Limmason—Lieutenant Limmason, of the White
Hussars?"
Swift as a shot came the answer, in a slightly surprised tone, "Yes,
I'm Limmason, of course." The light died out in his eyes, and he
collapsed afresh, watching every motion of Dirkovitch with terror. A
flight from Siberia may fix a few elementary facts in the mind, but it
does not lead to continuity of thought. The man could not explain how,
like a homing pigeon, he had found his way to his own old mess again.
Of what he had suffered or seen he knew nothing. He cringed before
Dirkovitch as instinctively as he had pressed the spring of the
candlestick, sought the picture of the drum-horse, and answered to the
Queen's toast. The rest was a blank that the dreaded Russian tongue
could only in part remove. His head bowed on his breast, and he giggled
and cowered alternately.
The devil that lived in the brandy prompted Dirkovitch at this
extremely inopportune moment to make a speech. He rose, swaying
slightly, gripped the table edge, while his eyes glowed like opals, and
began:—"Fellow-soldiers glorious—true friends and hospitables. It was
an accident, and deplorable—most deplorable." Here he smiled sweetly
all round the mess. "But you will think of this little, little thing.
So little, is it not? The czar! Posh! I slap my fingers—I snap my
fingers at him. Do I believe in him? No! But the Slav who has done
nothing, _him_ I believe. Seventy—how much?—millions that have done
nothing—not one thing. Napoleon was an episode." He banged a hand on
the table. "Hear you, old peoples, we have done nothing in the
world—out here. All our work is to do: and it shall be done, old
peoples. Get away!" He waved his hand imperiously, and pointed to the
man. "You see him. He is not good to see. He was just one little—oh, so
little—accident, that no one remembered. Now he is _That_. So will you
be, brother-soldiers so brave—so will you be. But you will never come
back. You will all go where he has gone, or"—he pointed to the great
coffin shadow on the ceiling, and muttering, "Seventy millions—get
away, you old people," fell asleep.
"Sweet, and to the point," said Little Mildred. "What's the use of
getting wroth? Let's make the poor devil comfortable."
But that was a matter suddenly and swiftly taken from the loving hands
of the White Hussars. The lieutenant had returned only to go away again
three days later, when the wail of the "Dead March" and the tramp of
the squadrons told the wondering station, that saw no gap in the table,
an officer of the regiment had resigned his new-found commission.
And Dirkovitch—bland, supple, and always genial—went away too by a
night train. Little Mildred and another saw him off, for he was the
guest of the mess, and even had he smitten the colonel with the open
hand the law of the mess allowed no relaxation of hospitality.
"Good-by, Dirkovitch, and a pleasant journey," said Little Mildred.
"_Au revoir[22]_ my true friends," said the Russian.
"Indeed! But we thought you were going home?"
"Yes; but I will come again. My friends, is that road shut?" He pointed
to where the north star burned over the Khyber Pass.
"By Jove! I forgot. Of course. Happy to meet you, old man, any time you
like. Got everything you want,—cheroots, ice, bedding? That's all
right. Well, _au revoir_, Dirkovitch."
"Um," said the other man, as the tail-lights of the train grew small.
"Of—all—the—unmitigated[23]—"
Little Mildred answered nothing, but watched the north star, and hummed
a selection from a recent burlesque that had much delighted the White
Hussars. It ran:—
"I'm sorry for Mister Bluebeard,
I'm sorry to cause him pain;