waddled to the door; 'Comrade Iliosovy!' he bellowed. 'I've been told lamb cutlets await my hole!'

Then came a thrashing from yonder bramble: gun in his right hand, a hefty ewer in the other, Medvelov emerged from the wooded cloak. He zagged towards the butcher, raised the weapon...

The first shot -taken from several cubits- missed its mark.

My horse snorted and leapt; blackbirds scattered.

'S—— in my mouth,' Medvelov slurred.

Busy reigning the spooked beast, I didn't see what transpired next.

Oh, but I heard the commotion: Zupricka's tinny squeals, like those from a piglet, filled the air.

'Come here!' Medvelov woofed.

'N-N-Nooooo!' shrieked doomed Zupricka.

A second report...followed by a third...

Squealing faded into wheezing what waned into a silence pricked only by the stressed nickering of the Kabardian.

I twisted me head and side eyed Medvelovlazybones. Anyway, to the library we go. But I must warn: Tread light; Vladimir is jumpy.'

Jumpy proved an understatement: Inside the chamber, The Major (wearing a blank trench coat in lieu of his uniform) stood in front of a mirror, aimed the weapon and pulled the trigger.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

Over and over...

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

Medvelov shouldered me aside and announced: 'Our comrade author has arrived, Vladimir.'

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

The Major's eyes met mine in the smudgy glass...

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

'Put the gun down,' scolded Medvelov. 'You're driving me mad.'

'It's not a _gun_ ,' The Major hissed as he wheeled from the mirror. 'This, sir, is Francotte Pinfire...a gift from Voronstov after we faced Napoleon at Caronne. The Pinfire has a five-shot capacity-'

'I'm aware of