Summary

James Grant The Phantom Regiment; or, Stories of "Ours"

She gave a cry of wonder, and as she gazed at me, her large black eyes dilated and flashed with anger.
"Basilia," said I, "do you not remember me?"
"No," replied she, while trembling; "who are you?"
"Osman, the son of Mostapha, your own Osman, who saved you at Anapa."
"It is false," she answered, with eyes full of anger and sorrow; "Osman was a brave Circassian warrior, and I loved him; oh! how dearly and how well; but he fell in battle at Mikhailov. Thou art either a base Muscovite, or some fiend in the shape of Osman; a ghoul it may be, a son of Ifrit; begone, and leave me."
Source: Gutenberg

James Grant The Phantom Regiment; or, Stories of "Ours"

I did not shed a tear for him; a fiend seemed to possess me; a devilish joy swelled within me, as I lay that night in the bivouac beside the feet of Zupi, rolled in my mantle, with my sword and pistols at my side.
"Woe to thee, whining cur of the Czar, woe!" I repeated again and again; "to-morrow I will see thee, Carlovitch—to-morrow shall thy soul answer to heaven and to hell for these atrocities; and to-morrow Mostapha's son shall cease to be the serf of this dog Emperor, Nicholas Paulovitch!"
Source: Gutenberg

James Grant The Phantom Regiment; or, Stories of "Ours"

I never met one of either which came within a thousand degrees of the agony I endured that night at Ciudad Real. I, a gentleman, a soldier, bearing on my person three wounds, won on that accursed Spanish soil; innocent of all they alleged; young, with a long life and rapid promotion before me, to be cut off thus—strangled like a garotted villain—hanged like a dog, to glut the noonday frenzy of a Spanish rabble! Horrible! I had often faced death without shrinking; but now, like a coward's, my whole soul shrunk from such a death as that which these Spaniards meted out to me.
Source: Gutenberg

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