morning, noon
Nothing of the still , white novice was visible now in her brilliant eyes and flushed cheeks . Her tragic silence had given place to an unnatural loquacity ; her grief to easily aroused mirth ; and the dark sorrow in her haunted eyes was gone , and they grew brown and sunny and vivacious . She talked freely with her comrade , Ilse Westgard ; she exchanged gossip and banter with the Cossacks , argued with them , laughed with them , sang with them . At night she slept in her sheepskin in Ilse Westgard 's vigorous arms ; morning , noon and evening she filled the samovar with snow beside Cossack fires , or in the rare cantonments afforded in wretched villages , where whiskered and filthy mujiks cringed to the Cossacks , whispering to one another : `` There is no end to death ; there is no end to the fighting and the dying , God bless us all . There is no end . '' In the glare of great fires in muddy streets she stood , swathed in her greatcoat , her cap pushed back , looking like some beautiful , impudent boy , while the Cossacks sang `` Lada oy Lada ! '' -- and let their slanting eyes wander sideways toward her , till her frank laughter set the singers grinning and the _ gusli _ was laid aside .