his report. He spoke without precision at times and exhibited much confusion, often rubbing his brow and licking his feverish lips.
As he opened his portfolio to show me some documents, I saw a Browning tucked away in it. Kazik laid it on a chair and began to hand me the papers. While I was glancing through these, the crash of a shot suddenly rent the air and a hot wave struck my face. I jumped, then became motionless with fright. Out of the momentary haze appeared the deadly pale face of Kazik, gazing at me with wide-open eyes full of despair. A mocking smile tightened his lips, baring his teeth, flecked with blood. But my attention was caught, not by this tragic mask, but by the breast of Kazik. He wore a red shirt, on which a dark stain was spreading. It was only a moment before the blood soaked through the material and began dropping to the floor. By the time I had recovered control of myself and had seated Kazik in an armchair, there was already a telltale pool saturating the rug. As I cut his shirt open with my desk shears, I found that the bullet had entered his left breast just above his heart and, discovering no exit, naturally inferred that it had lodged against his shoulderblade. The left arm was cold and inert. I quickly applied a first dressing and telephoned the station to get in touch immediately with the nearest hospital. Fortunately a Red Cross Hospital had been established just the previous week at the next station along the line. In a few hours an ambulance car arrived and took Kazik away. The next day an operation was performed and the bullet extracted, leaving Kazik to struggle through long weeks with threatening death. Tuberculosis developed in the perforated lung, forcing him to remain in the hospital until the autumn and then to leave only for a Govern-
