"And so', gentlemen, the situation is indeed serious.
I see no way out but the seizure of Ekaterinodar.
I have decided to storm the town tomorrow at dawn, with combined forces along the whole front.
The Kazanovich regiment is in reserve.
I will lead it to the attack myself."
The snort with which he ended his words was entirely unexpected.
The generals remained in their seats, their heads bent.
General Denikin, stout, wheezy, grey-bearded, in appearance resembling a hard-working clerk, exclaimed involuntarily:
"Oh, God, oh, God!", and, giving way to a fit of coughing made for the door.
Kornilov's black eyes shot a glance after him.
He listened to everyone's objections, then rose and declared the council over.
The decisive assault was fixed for the first of April.
Half an hour later Denikin came back to the room, the usual whistling sounds escaping from his lungs.
He sat down and said, in tones of tender consideration:
"Your Excellency, may I put a question to you, as man to man?"
"Go on, Anton Ivanovich."
"Lavr Georgievich, why are you so inexorable?"
Kornilov replied immediately as if he had long been expecting such a question, and had his answer ready:
"There's no other way out.
If we don't take Ekaterinodar, I shall put a bullet through my brains." With a finger on which the nail was bitten to the quick he pointed to his right temple
"You wouldn't do that!"
Denikin raised his plump, white hands and pressed them against his chest.
"Before God, before your native land.... Who would lead the army, Lavr Georgievich?"
"You, Your Excellency."
With an impatient gesture Kornilov gave his interlocutor to understand that he would say no more.
The morning of the 31st of March dawned warm and cloudless.
A fine mist rose from the earth, which was just beginning to be covered with green sprouts.
The turbid yellow waters of the Kuban flowed lazily between its steep banks, their calm only broken now and then by the leaping of a fish.
All was still.
The only sounds were an occasional rifle shot, or the rumbling of a distant gun, followed by the whistling of a shell.
Everyone was resting, in order, on the morrow, to embark upon a new and bloody battle.
Lieutenant Dolinsky was smoking in the porch in front of the house.
He was thinking to himself:
"I ought to wash my shirt, my underclothes ... my socks, too. It would be nice to have a bath...."
There was actually a bird gaily twittering in the grove.
Dolinsky raised his head.
Phee-ee-eet!—a shell landed right in the middle of the green grove, exploding with metallic clatterings.
The bird had stopped singing.
Dolinsky flung the end of the cigarette at a silly hen which had somehow or other escaped the pot, sighed, turned into the house, and sat down near the door, but the next minute he jumped up and went into the darkened room.
Kornilov was standing at the table, hitching up his trousers.
"Tea not ready yet?" he asked softly.
"It'll be ready in, a minute, Your Excellency, I've ordered it."
Kornilov sat down, put his elbows on the table, and, raising his parchment-skinned hand to his forehead, mopped at his wrinkles.
"There was something I wanted to say to you, Lieutenant. But it's no good, I can't remember.... It's awful...."
Dolinsky, wondering what he wanted to say, bent over the table.
It was all so unlike the Commander in Chief— the quiet voice, the distrait manner—that he was quite alarmed.
Kornilov repeated his last words:
"Awful! Awful! It'll come back to me, don't go away. I've been looking out of the window. A lovely morning.... Oh, yes, now I remember...."
He stopped speaking and raised his head as if listening.
Now Dolinsky, too, could make out the ever-nearing, bloodcurdling howl of a shell, which seemed to be coming right through the curtained window.