seeing the ruins. "Men must be desperate, if they don't spare even houses. That means the end."
In the neighborhood of R., we came across the beautiful old park of the Polish magnate, Branitzky. Splendid, old lindens, hundred-year old oaks, tall acacias, their branches broken off by shells, stood in straight rows, charred and black,—the gloomy sentinels of the devastated castle. Conservatories with broken roofs, filled with dirt and shattered flower-pots, ponds with objects of every description piled into them, tennis-courts and meadows cut by trenches and disfigured by explosions,—this was all that remained of the splendid, rich estate.
A peculiar, complex feeling seemed to stir in our hearts, a feeling of pity and, at the same time, of something that baffled analysis, resembling, perhaps, repentance, or a realization of our own indirect responsibility. This realization caused the soldiers' faces to become harder and sterner, brought curses and imprecations to their lips, made their step more regular, although there was no need for this regularity. Zverev lighted a cigarette, threw it away before it was half consumed, and said, spitting through his teeth:
"When you fight, you break the other fellow's cheek-bones. But what's the use of spoiling property? The devils!"
"Keep still, there," said the officer to him. "It doesn't concern you."
Zverev lit another cigarette, but threw it away also, cursing the tobacco for being wet.
"Tobacco is the thing a military man needs most, and it get wet, the Devil take it! What are you going to do without tobacco in time of war?"
"Stop that, Zverev. Here's a cigarette," said Kostrukov.
Zverev took the cigarette, evidently regretting that there was no longer a pretext for grumbling.
And then, too, there was no time for grumbling. Our orders were to go through the park, and on towards R., where the N. Division had dug itself in.
At the end of the park, on the high road, stood a small brick building, evidently serving the purpose of a watch-house before the War. Only a flue and two walls still remained standing. When we approached the spot, a half-wild, dirty dog ran from behind the flue, and rushed away with a howl.
"It stinks here, boys," said Lozhkin, approaching a pile of broken stone.
And really, a sweetish smell of decay came from the pile,
