I rode along a wide valley surrounded by mountains. Soon I saw Kars, which loomed white on one of them. My Turk kept pointing it out to me, repeating: Kars, Kars! and started to gallop; I followed him, tormented with worry: my fate was to be decided in Kars. There I was to find out where our camp was and if there was still any possibility for me to catch up with the army… We rode into Kars. As we rode up to the gate of the city, I heard a Russian drum: they were summoning the soldiers for a morning gathering. The guard took my note and went to the commandant. I stood in the rain for about half an hour. Finally, they let me pass. I ordered my guide to take me straight to the baths. We rode along crooked and steep streets; our horses slipped on the bad Turkish pavement. We stopped at one building, of rather a bad appearance. This was the bathhouse. The Turk dismounted and began to knock at the door. Nobody answered. The rain was pouring down over me. Finally, a young Armenian came out of a nearby house and after a discussion with my Turk called me over, expressing himself in rather pure Russian. He took me along a narrow staircase to the second floor of his house. In a room furnished with low sofas and threadbare carpets sat an old woman, his mother. She came up to me and kissed my hand. The son ordered her to light the fire and prepare supper for me… In the morning I went to have a look at the city… As I examined the fortifications and the citadel, which was built on an inaccessible cliff, I found it impossible to understand how we could have taken Kars.