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 called his fatherland, his dear fatherland. Oh! be cursed weak human hearts! He tore our souls with calling out: “Dear Russia!…”

We witnessed his death, and shortly before the end he recovered his senses and lay quietly, so thin, so weak. We, his companions, stood close beside him. And we all, for we were many, heard him saying: “When I am dying sing over me the ‘Marseillaise.’”

“What do you say!” we exclaimed, shaking with joy.

Again he repeated:

“When I am dying, sing over me the ‘Marseillaise.’”

And then we noticed that his eyes, for the first time, were dry; but we all, without exception, were weeping, and our burning tears were like the fire, from which wild beasts run away.

He died—and we sang over him