Early on a beautiful spring morning the resolute band mustered, and
were passed in a pathetic little review by their valiant chief, who
knew that he should look upon but few of those faces again. As they
bowed devoutly before the holy ikon raised above them, they cried, "For
God, St. Nicholas, and the Czar!" Then they shouldered their rifles,
and a moment later were on the move, headed by the commander himself.
The manoeuvre surprised the enemy, as it was intended to do, but the
advancing force was violently assailed by a triple fire from artillery,
rifles, and machine-guns. Still, however, they stumbled on, singing a
chant popular with the peasants on the banks of the Volga. Man after
man fell around the intrepid Korniloff, but the survivors pressed on
unheeding; they knew that every yard they advanced meant more chance
for the Forty-eighth Division.
Steadily they ploughed their way onwards till they were close to the
enemy's lines. By this time there was but a handful of them left.
Korniloff himself was wounded, and his strength was fast failing him.
The Austrians looked on with astonishment. Would these madmen never
surrender? The ground was strewn with their dead and wounded. What
could the last few survivors hope to accomplish? At last a bullet
brought down the indomitable general, and the one-sided fight was over.