CHAPTER XVII.
IN THE CAMP.
"Our souls are parched with agonizing thirst,
Which must be quenched though death were in the draught:
We must have vengeance."
ONE evening towards the end of October, and just when the first snow of the year was beginning to fall, Ivan Pojarsky and Michael Ivanovitch entered the head-quarters of the Russian army at Tarovtino. Their fleet Arabian horses were flecked with foam, for they had traversed the ten leagues which divided them from Moscow without once drawing rein. As they dashed along, they shouted to all whom they passed, "Napoleon has quitted Moscow!" and answering "houras" and cries of joy cheered them on their way.
"Bring us at once to Count Rostopchine," said Ivan to the soldiers who crowded around them. "He is here, is he not?"
"He is here, gospodin; but the Marshal—"
"With all due respect to the dignity of his Highness the General-in-Chief, our business is with the Count, brothers," returned Ivan.
He was accordingly conducted to the presence of Rostopchine, who, after a lengthened interview, dismissed him to seek rest and refreshment, desiring him to return early in the morning.
Rostopchine's aide-de-camp offered his hospitality, and Ivan
