The guardsmen were themselves near the end of their strength, and their
patience was wellnigh finished as well. Rough mountain marching had torn
the soles from their boots, and great unsightly wraps of rawhide and
rags were bound on their feet. The thin worn overcoats, burned in many
places, flapped dismally against their ankles; and their caps, beaten
out of shape by many storms, clung drenched to their heads. They were in
no condition to help any one to walk, for they could scarcely get on
alone. They stood a moment shivering, looked at each other, shook their
heads as if discouraged, and proceeded to rouse the Turk by hauling him
upon his feet again. The three moved on a few yards, and the prisoner
fell again, and the same operation was repeated. All this time I was
crowding nearer and nearer, and as I got within a half dozen paces the
Turk fell once more, and this time lay at full length in the mud. The
guardsmen tried to rouse him by shaking, but in vain. Finally, one of
them, losing all patience, pricked him with his bayonet on the lower
part of the ribs exposed by the raising of the jacket as he fell. I was
now near enough to act, and with a sudden clutch I pulled the guardsman
away, whirled him around, and stood in his place. As I was stooping over
the Turk he raised himself slowly, doubtless aroused by the pain of the
puncture, and turned on me a most beseeching look, which changed at once
into something like joy and surprise. Immediately a deathlike pallor
spread over his face, and he sank back again with a groan.

By this time quite a crowd of Bulgarians had gathered around us, and
seemed to enjoy the sight of a suffering enemy. It was evident that they
did not intend to volunteer any assistance, so I helped the wounded
Russian down from my saddle, and invited the natives rather sternly to
put the Turk in his place. With true Bulgarian spirit they refused to
assist a Turk, and it required the argument of the rawhide (_nagajka_)