He only smiled at my request.
I could not but admire him, for it was the very smile which I
should have myself smiled had I been in his position.
"At least," said I, "tell us the name of this village."
"It is Dobrova."
"And that is Minsk over yonder, I suppose."
"Yes, that is Minsk."
"Then we shall go to the village and we shall very soon find some
one who will translate this despatch."
So we rode onward together, a trooper with his carbine unslung on
either side of our prisoner. The village was but a little place,
and I set a guard at the ends of the single street, so that no
one could escape from it. It was necessary to call a halt and to
find some food for the men and horses, since they had travelled
all night and had a long journey still before them.
There was one large stone house in the centre of the village, and
to this I rode. It was the house of the priest --a snuffy and
ill-favoured old man who had not a civil answer to any of our
questions. An uglier fellow I never met, but, my faith, it was
very different with his only daughter, who kept house for him.
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