by another, and even more terrible, Sergeant to a washing-shed beyond the drill-ground, and bidden to soap and scour itself, and then stand beneath the primitive shower-baths until purged and clean as never before in its unspeakable life.
As they neared the washing-shed, the bare idea of ablutions, or the idea of bare ablutions, appeared to strike consternation, if not positive terror, into the heart of at least one member of the squad, for the young Russian who had been addressed by his twin as Mikhail suddenly seized the other's arm and said with a gasp—
"Oh, Fedichka, how can I? Oh Fedia, Fedia, what shall I do?"
"We must trust in God, and use our wits, Olusha. I will…"
But a roar of "Silence, Oh Son of Seven Pigs," from the Sergeant, cut him short as they reached the shed.
"Now strip and scrub your mangy skins, you dogs. Scrape your crawling hides until the floor is thick in hog-bristles and earth, oh Great-grandsons of Sacred Swine," he further adjured the wretched "blues," with horrible threats and fearful oaths.
"Wash, you mud-caked vermin, wash, for the carcase of the Legionary must be as spotless as the Fame of the Legion, or the honour of its smartest Sergeant—Sergeant Legros," and he lapped his bulging chest lest any Bœotian present should be ignorant of the identity of Sergeant Legros of the Legion.
Walking up and down before the doorless stalls in which the naked recruits washed, Sergeant Legros
