Poor, poor children! The boys of twelve or thirteen managed somehow to stand up, but the little ones of eight and ten....

No brush, however black, could convey the terror of this scene on the canvas.
Pale, worn out, with scared looks, this is the way they stood in their uncomfortable, rough soldier uniforms, with their starched, turned-up collars, fixing an inexpressibly helpless and pitiful gaze upon the garrisoned soldiers, who were handling them rudely.

White lips, blue lines under the eyes betokened either fever or cold.

And these poor children, without care, without a caress, exposed to the wind which blows unhindered from the Arctic Ocean, were marching to their death.

I seized the officer's hand, and, with the words: "Take good care of them! ", threw myself into my carriage.