When the white flag was seen a loud shout went up from the Russian army.
Then a party of officers rode forward, and two Turkish horsemen were
seen advancing. They stated that Osman himself was coming to treat with
the Russians.
The spot on which they stood was covered with the grim relics of battle.
The earth had been uptorn by exploding shells. Here lay a horse
groaning and struggling in its agony. Close to it lay an ox, silently
bleeding to death, his great, round, patient eyes looking mournfully at
the scene around him. Close by, was a cart with a dead horse lying in
the yoke as he had fallen, and a Turkish soldier, stretched alongside,
whose head had been carried away by a cannon shot. Under the wagon was
a wounded man, and close to him four others, who, drained of nearly all
their life-blood, lay crouched together in helplessness, with the hoods
of their ragged grey overcoats drawn down on their faces. These latter
gazed at the murky sky in listless indifference, or at what was going on
in a sort of weary surprise. Among them was Nicholas Naranovitsch.
Russian surgeons were already moving about the field of battle, doing
what they could, but their efforts were trifling compared with the vast
necessity.