She was a brunette, a rare thing in Russia, with creamy skin,
raven hair, and a pair of the most glorious dark eyes that ever
kindled at the sight of a Hussar. From the first glance I saw
that she was mine. It was no time for love-making when a
soldier's duty had to be done, but still, as I took the simple
meal which they laid before me, I chatted lightly with the lady,
and we were the best of friends before an hour had passed.
Sophie was her first name, her second I never knew. I taught her
to call me Etienne, and I tried to cheer her up, for her sweet
face was sad and there were tears in her beautiful dark eyes. I
pressed her to tell me what it was which was grieving her.
"How can I be otherwise," said she, speaking French with a most
adorable lisp, "when one of my poor countrymen is a prisoner in
your hands? I saw him between two of your Hussars as you rode
into the village."
"It is the fortune of war," said I. "His turn to-day; mine,
perhaps, to-morrow."
"But consider, Monsieur--" said she.
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