"That's Uncle Zhdánof's very most favorite song," said Chikin to me in
a whisper, as he helped me on with my cloak. "The other day, as Filipp
Antónuitch was singing it, he actually cried."
Zhdánof at first sat absolutely motionless, with his eyes fastened on
the smouldering embers, and his face, shining in the ruddy glow, seemed
extraordinarily gloomy; then his cheek under his mustaches began to
move quicker and quicker; and at last he got up, and, spreading out
his cloak, he lay down in the shadow behind the fire. Either he tossed
about and groaned as he got ready for bed, or the death of Velenchúk
and this wretched weather had completely upset me; but it certainly
seemed to me that he was weeping.
The bottom of the log which had been rolled on the fire, occasionally
blazing up, threw its light on Antónof's form, with his gray moustache,
his red face, and the ribbons on the cloak flung over his shoulders,
and brought into relief the boots, heads, or backs of other sleeping
soldiers.
From above the same wretched drizzle was falling; in the atmosphere
was the same odor of dampness and smoke; around us could be seen the
same bright dots of the dying fires, and amid the general silence the
melancholy notes of Antónof's song rang out. And when this ceased for a
moment, the faint nocturnal sounds of the camp, the snoring, the clank
of a sentinel's musket, and quiet conversation, chimed in with it.
"Second watch! Makatiuk and Zhdánof," shouted Maksímof.
Antónof ceased to sing; Zhdánof arose, drew a deep sigh, stepped across
the log, and went off quietly to the guns.
[Footnote 29: _chïo-sh._]
[Footnote 30: _da chïo._]