In the town there was a shoemaker by the name of Martin, who lived in a basement with a tiny little window looking out into the street. Martin could see the people pass, and though he only got a glimpse of their feet, he still knew every one, for Martin could recognize people by their boots. Martin had lived in that basement for many a long year and had numbers of acquaintances. There were not many pairs of boots in the neighbourhood that had not been through his hands at least once or twice—some for new soles, others for a patch or a stitch, or a second time for new tops, perhaps. Martin had plenty of work, for he always did it well; he gave good leather, did not overcharge, and kept true to his word. If he could do a piece of work for the time it was required, he took it; if not, he would not deceive his customers and told them so beforehand. And all knew Martin and he had no lack of work.
Martin had always been a good man, but as he grew older he began to think the more about his soul and to draw nearer to God. Martin’s wife had died when he had still worked for a master, and he was left with a boy of three years old. Their children never survived; the eldest were all dead. At first Martin wanted to send his little son to a sister in the country, but he felt sorry for the child, thinking, “It will be hard for the poor boy to grow up in a strange family; I will keep him with me.”
And Martin left his master and went into lodgings with his little son. But God had not ordained Martin to be happy in his children. The boy had no sooner grown up and become a help and a comfort to his father than he fell sick, tossed about with fever for a week and died. Martin buried his son and gave himself up to despair. His despair was so great that he even began to complain against God. Martin was so lonely that many were the times he prayed to God to let him die, reproaching Him for having spared an old man like himself and taken his only beloved son. Martin gave up going to church.
One day an old countryman came to visit him, who had been on a pilgrimage for eight years. Martin opened his heart to the old man and complained about his sorrow.
“I have no desire to live even,” he said; “I only want to die. That is all I pray to God about. I am a desperate man now.”
And the old man said to him, “It is not well what you say, Martin; we cannot judge the ways of God; they are beyond our understanding. He has judged it fitting to take away your son and to let you live, so it must be for the best. You despair because you want to live only for your own personal pleasure.”
“And what else should I live for?” Martin asked.
And the old man said, “You must live for God, Martin. He gave you life and you must live for Him. When you begin to live for Him and cease to worry about anything, then all will become easy for you.”
Martin was silent a while; then asked, “How can one live for God?”
And the old man said, “We must live for God as Christ taught us. You can read, can you not? Then buy the Gospels and read them and you will find out how to live for God. The Gospels tell us everything.”
Martin took these words to heart. That very day he bought a copy of the New Testament, printed in large type, and began to read it.
Martin had intended to read only on holidays, but when he once began he grew so light-hearted that he read every day. Sometimes he got so absorbed in his reading that the oil in the lamp burnt low and still he could not tear himself away.
Martin read every evening, and the more he read the more clearly he understood what God required of him and how he was to live for God. And his heart grew lighter than ever. At one time when he went to bed he would sigh and moan and think of his boy; now he only said to himself, “Glory to Thee, glory to Thee, God! Thy will be done!”
And a change came into Martin’s life. On holidays he used to hang about the public-houses to drink a cup of tea and did not refuse vodka even when it came his way. He would drink, as it happened, with some acquaintance, and though not exactly drunk, would come out of the public-house in an excited mood and speak vain words, giving back rough word for rough word.
But now this had all left him. His life became a peaceful and happy one.
In the morning he would sit down to his work and keep on for the necessary time, then he would take the lamp off the wall, put it on the table, fetch the Bible from a shelf, open it, and sit down to read. And the more he read, the more he understood, and the serener and lighter grew his heart.
One day Martin sat reading until late into the night. He was reading Luke’s Gospel and had come to the sixth chapter and the verses, “And unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek, offer also the other; and him that taketh away thy cloke forbid not to take thy coat also. Give to every man that asketh of thee; and of him that taketh away thy goods ask them not again. And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise.”
And he also read the verses where our Lord says, “And why call ye me, Lord, Lord, and do not the things which I say? Whosoever cometh to me and heareth my sayings, and doeth them, I will show you to whom he is like. He is like a man which built an house, and digged deep, and laid the foundation on a rock; and when the flood arose, the stream beat vehemently upon that house, and could not shake it; for it was founded upon a rock. But he that heareth, and doeth not, is like a man that without a foundation built an house upon the earth; against which the stream did beat vehemently, and immediately it fell; and the ruin of that house was great.”
When Martin read these words a feeling of joy entered his heart. He took off his spectacles, laid them on the Bible, then resting his elbows on the table, he began to ponder over what he had read. He compared his own life to the light of these words. “Is my house built on a rock or on sand?” he thought. “If on a rock it is well. It seems so easy when one sits alone here, and one thinks one has done all that God commands, but no sooner does one cease to be on one’s guard than one falls into sin. I must persevere; it brings such happiness! Help me, oh God!”
With this thought in his mind, he was about to go to bed, but was loath to leave his Bible, and went on reading the seventh chapter. He read about the centurion, the widow’s son, and the answer to John’s disciples, and he came to the passage where a rich Pharisee invited the Lord to his house; and about the woman who was a sinner and anointed His feet and washed them with her tears, and how the Lord comforted her. And he came to the forty-fourth verse and began to read the words, “And he turned to the woman and said unto Simon, Seest thou this woman? I entered into thine house, thou gavest me no water for my feet; but she hath washed my feet with tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her head. Thou gavest me no kiss, but this woman since the time I came in, hath not ceased to kiss my feet; my head with oil thou didst not anoint, but this woman hath anointed my feet with ointment.”
Martin read these verses and thought, “He gave no water for His feet, and no kiss, and he did not anoint His head with oil.” Once more Martin took off his spectacles and laid them on the Bible.
“He must have been like me, that Pharisee. Like me he thought only of himself—how to get a cup of tea, how to live in warmth and comfort. He cared only for himself, with never a thought about his guest. And the Lord Himself was his guest! I wonder if I would act like that if He came to visit me?”
And Martin rested his elbows on the table and his head on his hands and fell into a doze.
“Martin!” Some one suddenly breathed into his ear.
Martin started. “Who is that?” he asked, half asleep.
He turned and looked at the door, but no one was there. He called again and this time he heard a voice say clearly, “Martin! Martin! Look out for me in the street to-morrow; I am coming to see you.”
Martin roused himself, got up from the chair and began to rub his eyes. He did not know whether he had heard the words in a dream or when awake. He turned out the lamp and went to bed.
At daybreak next morning Martin arose, lit the stove, prepared some soup and porridge, got the samovar ready, put on his apron and sat down at the window to his work. As he worked he thought of what had happened yesterday. Now it seemed to him that he had heard the voice in his dreams, now that he had really heard it when awake.
“Things like that have happened before,” he thought.
Martin sat at the window and did not work so much as peer out into the street, and when an unfamiliar pair of boots came along, he would stoop down and look up to catch a glimpse of the person to whom they belonged. A yard-porter passed in new felt boots and a water-carrier; then an old soldier of Nicholas’ reign came alongside the window, spade in hand. Martin recognized him by his felt boots. The old man was called Stepan and a merchant who lived near by kept him out of charity. His duties were to help the yard-porter. He stopped opposite Martin’s window to clear away the snow. Martin looked at him and again went on with his work.
“What a fool I am getting in my old age,” Martin thought, amused at his own fancies. “Stepan is shovelling away the snow and I thought it was Christ come to visit me. Old dotard that I am!”
Yet after a dozen stitches or so Martin was again drawn to the window. He looked out and saw that Stepan had leaned his spade against the wall and was resting and trying to warm himself. The man was old and broken and had no strength even to clear away the snow. “Why not give him a cup of tea while the samovar is still on the boil?” Martin thought. And he put down his awl, rose, brought the samovar to the table, poured out a cup of tea and tapped on the window. Stepan turned and came up. Martin beckoned to him and went to open the door.
“Come in and get warm,” he said; “you must be quite frozen.”
“Christ save us! but my bones do ache,” Stepan said. Stepan came in, shook the snow off himself and began to wipe his boots so as not to dirty the floor, reeling as he did so.
“Don’t bother to wipe your feet,” Martin said; “I will wipe the floor afterwards; I am used to that. Come in and sit down. Here is a cup of tea.”
And Martin poured out two cups, gave one to his guest, poured some of his own into a saucer and began to blow on it in order to cool it.
Stepan finished his cup, turned it upside down in the saucer, put the remaining bit of sugar on top and began to thank Martin, who could see that the old man wanted some more.
“Have another cup,” Martin said and poured out more tea for his guest and for himself, and as he drank, he kept peering out of the window.
“Are you expecting some one?” Stepan asked.
“I? I hardly like to tell you whom I expect. But I wait and wait. A certain word took possession of my heart. Was it a dream or not, I cannot tell. It was like this, brother; I was reading the Gospels last night about Christ our Father and how He suffered on earth. You have heard tell of it, I daresay.”
“Yes,” Stepan said, “but we are ignorant folk and cannot read.”
“Well, I was reading how the Lord walked on earth, how He went to visit a Pharisee who did not receive Him well. And I wondered, as I read, how any man could receive the Lord without due honour. ‘Supposing such a thing were to happen to me,’ I thought, ‘what would I not do to receive Him? And the Pharisee did nothing!’ Thinking thus I fell asleep, and as I slept I heard a voice call to me. I rose; the voice seemed to whisper ‘Expect me; I am coming to-morrow.’ I heard it twice. Well, would you believe it? the idea took hold of my mind, and though I upbraid myself, I keep on expecting the Lord to come to me.”
Stepan shook his head, but made no remark. He finished his cup of tea and laid it down on its side in the saucer, but Martin took it up and filled it again.
“Have some more, bless you! I was thinking, too, that our Lord despised no one when He walked on earth; He was mostly with common folk. He went about with plain people and chose His disciples from men of our kind—simple workmen and sinners like ourselves. ‘He who raises himself,’ He said, ‘shall be humbled, and he who humbles himself shall be raised. You call Me Lord,’ he said, ‘and I will wash your feet. He who would be first,’ He said, ‘let him be the servant of all, because,’ He said, ‘blessed are the poor, the humble, the meek, the merciful.’ ”
Stepan forgot his tea. He was an old man and easily moved to tears; and as he listened the tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Have some more,” Martin said, but Stepan crossed himself, thanked Martin, pushed away his cup and rose.
“Thank you Martin,” he said; “you have nourished my body and my soul.”
“You are welcome another time. I shall always be pleased to see you; come again.”
Stepan went out; Martin poured himself out a last cup of tea, drank it, cleared away the dishes and sat down again by the window to work, stitching the back seam of a boot. As he stitched he peered out of the window to see if Christ was coming, and he kept on thinking of Him and His doings and recalling His words.
Two soldiers passed; one in Government boots, the other in boots of his own; then the owner of the next house went by in clean goloshes, and a baker with a basket. All these passed on; then a woman came up in woollen stockings and coarse country shoes. She went by the window and stopped by the wall. Martin looked up and saw that she was a stranger, poorly clad, with a baby in her arms. She was standing with her back to the wind, trying to wrap up the baby, but there was nothing to wrap it in. Her garments were summer ones and ragged, too. Through the window Martin heard the baby crying; the woman tried to comfort it but could not.
Martin rose and going out at the door and up the steps, he called to her.
“Come this way, my dear!”
The woman turned to him.
“Don’t stand in the cold there with the baby; come inside in the warm; you can make him more comfortable here. Come along!”
The woman was surprised to see an old man in an apron and spectacles on his nose inviting her to his room, but she followed him. They descended the stairs and entered the room. Martin led her to the bed.
“Come and sit here, my dear,” he said. “It is nearer to the stove; you can warm yourself and feed the baby.”
“I haven’t any milk; I have eaten nothing myself since morning,” the woman said, yet putting the child to the breast.
Martin shook his head. He got some bread and a cup, opened the oven door and filled the cup with soup. He then took the porridge-pot out of the oven, but the porridge was not quite done. He spread a cloth and put the soup and bread on the table.
“Sit down and have something to eat, my dear. I’ll look after the baby. I have had children of my own and know how to nurse them.”
The woman crossed herself, sat down by the table and began to eat, and Martin sat on the bed with the baby. He clucked and clucked, but having no teeth he could not do it well, and the baby would not stop its crying. And Martin tried to amuse him with his finger. He poked the finger straight at the baby’s mouth, then drew it back again. He would not let the child take the finger in its mouth because it was black with cobbler’s wax. The child looked at the finger, stopped crying and began to laugh. Martin was pleased.
As the woman ate she told him about herself, saying who she was and where she was going.
“I am a soldier’s wife,” she said. “It is now eight months that my husband has been taken away and I haven’t heard a word from him. I had a place as a cook when the child was born, but they would not keep me after that. I’ve been without a place for three months now and eaten everything I possessed. I wanted to go as a wet-nurse, but no one would have me because they said I was too thin. I went to a merchant’s wife with whom our grandmother is in service and she promised to take me. I thought she meant at once, but she told me to come next week, and she lives a long way. I’m quite worn out, and the baby is half-starved. If our landlady did not take pity on us, I don’t know how we should live.”
Martin sighed and said, “Have you no warm clothes?”
“How can I have warm clothes! I pawned my last shawl yesterday for sixpence!”
The woman went up to the bed and took the child. Martin rummaged about among the things hanging on the wall and brought out an old coat.
“Though it isn’t much of a thing, it will do to wrap up in,” he said.
The woman looked at the coat; then at the old man. She took the coat and burst into tears. Martin turned away, crawled under the bed and pulled out a box. He rummaged about in it and once more sat down facing the woman.
And the woman said, “Christ save you, Grandfather. It must have been He who sent me to your window, otherwise the child and I would have been starved to death. It was mild when I started, but it’s very cold now. The dear Lord made you look out of the window and caused you to pity me.”
Martin smiled and said, “He did make me, indeed! I was not gazing idly out of the window, my dear.”
And Martin told the woman his dream and how he had heard a voice and how the voice had promised him that the Lord should come and visit him this day.
“All things are possible,” the woman said, and she rose, put on the coat, wrapped the child in it and began to take her leave, thanking Martin.
“Take this in Christ’s name,” Martin said, thrusting a sixpence into her hand. “It will do to take out your shawl.”
The woman crossed herself, Martin did likewise, then accompanied her to the door.
When she had gone Martin ate some soup, cleared the table, and again sat down to work. But he did not forget the window. As soon as a shadow fell across it, he looked up to see who it was. Acquaintances passed and strangers, and nothing particular happened. Suddenly Martin saw an old apple-woman stop by his window. She was carrying a basket of apples. She must have sold nearly all, for only a few remained. Over her shoulders was a bag of chips and shavings, she had collected no doubt in half-finished houses, and was taking home. The bag made her shoulder ache it seemed and she wanted to change it over to the other shoulder. She let it down on the pavement, placed her basket of apples on a post and shook the bag. As she was doing so a boy in a ragged cap appeared from somewhere, snatched an apple out of the basket and was about to slip away when the old woman saw him and caught him by the sleeve. The boy struggled to get away, but the old woman held him fast with both hands. She had knocked off his cap and clutched him by the hair. The boy screamed, the woman cursed. Martin did not wait to put the awl in its place, but dropped it on the floor and rushed out at the door and stumbled up the stairs, dropping his spectacles on the way. He ran out into the street. The old woman was pulling the boy by the hair, cursing and threatening to take him to the policeman; the boy struggled and resisted her. “Why do you strike me?” he was saying. “I didn’t take anything!”
Martin tried to part them; he took the boy by the hand and said, “Let him go, Granny. Forgive him for Christ’s sake.”
“I’ll forgive him so that he won’t forget it for a long time! I’ll take the rascal to the police-station!”
Martin began to plead with her.
“Let him go, Granny; he won’t do it again. Let him go for Christ’s sake!”
The old woman released the boy, who was about to run away when Martin stopped him.
“Ask Granny to forgive you and don’t do it again in future; I saw you take the apple.”
The boy burst into tears and begged the old woman to forgive him.
“There now, here’s an apple for you,” and Martin took an apple from the basket and gave it to the boy. “I’ll pay for it, Granny,” he said.
“You shouldn’t spoil the rascal,” the old woman said. “You ought to give him something he wouldn’t forget in a week.”
“Ah, Granny, Granny!” Martin said; “that is how we judge, but God does not judge like that. If the boy is to be whipped for an apple what do you suppose we deserve for our sins?”
And Martin told her the parable of the Lord who forgave his servant a large debt and how the servant then seized his own debtor by the throat. The old woman listened; the boy, too, stood and listened.
“God bade us forgive,” Martin said, “that we may be forgiven. Forgive every one, even a thoughtless boy.”
The old woman shook her head with a sigh.
“It’s true enough,” she said, “but boys get very spoilt nowadays.”
“Then we old folk must teach them better,” Martin said.
“That’s just what I said,” the old woman replied. “I had seven of my own, but now I’ve only a daughter left.” And the old woman began to tell him where and how she lived with her daughter and how many grandchildren she had. “You see,” she said, “I’m old now, yet still I work, for the sake of the grandchildren. And nice children they are, too. No one is so kind to me as they. The youngest won’t leave me for any one. It’s nothing but Granny dear, Granny darling all the time.”
The old woman had quite softened by now.
“Children will be children,” she said to Martin in reference to the boy. “The Lord bless them.”
She was about to raise her bag on to her shoulder when the boy rushed up and said, “Let me carry it, Granny; I’m going your way.”
The old woman shook her head and put the bag on the boy’s shoulder. And they walked down the street side by side. The old woman had forgotten to ask Martin to pay for the apple. Martin stood and watched them, listening to their voices as they talked together.
When they were out of sight he turned in, found his spectacles on the stairs quite whole, took up his awl and sat down to his work once more. After a while he could not see to pass the thread through the holes and he noticed the lamplighter lighting the street lamps. “I must light up,” he thought. And he trimmed the lamp, hung it up and went on with his work. He finished the boot he was doing and turned it over to examine it. He then put away his tools, cleared up the bits of leather and thread and awls, took down the lamp, put it on the table and took the Bible down from the shelf. He wanted to open it at the place he had marked with a piece of morocco, but it opened at another place. And as he opened the Gospels Martin recalled his dream of last night. And no sooner had he thought of it than he seemed to hear some one move behind him, as though some one were coming towards him. He turned, and it seemed to him that people were standing in the dark corner, but he could not make out who they were. And a voice whispered into his ear, “Martin, Martin, don’t you know me?”
“Who is it?” Martin asked.
“It is I,” the voice said.
And Stepan stepped out of the dark corner, smiling, and vanished like a cloud, and he was no more.
“It is I,” the voice said again, and from out the dark corner stepped the woman with the baby, and she smiled and the child smiled, and they too vanished.
“It is I,” said the voice once more, and out stepped the old woman and boy with an apple in his hand, and both smiled and also vanished.
And a feeling of gladness entered Martin’s soul. He crossed himself, put on his spectacles and began to read the Gospel just where it had opened. At the top of the page were the words, “For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat; I was thirsty and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger and ye took me in....”
And at the bottom of the page he read, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these brethren, ye have done it unto me.”
And Martin understood that his dream had come true and that his Saviour had really come to him that day, and that he had welcomed Him.
An officer by the name of Jilin served in the army in the Caucasus.
One day he received a letter from home. It was from his mother, who wrote, “I am getting old now, and I want to see my beloved son before I die. Come and say good-bye to me, and when you have buried me, with God’s grace, you can return to the Army. I have found a nice girl for you to marry; she is clever and pretty, and has some property of her own. If you like her perhaps you will marry and settle down for good.”
Jilin pondered over the letter. It was true; his mother was really failing fast, and it might be his only chance of seeing her alive. He would go home, and if the girl was nice, he might even marry.
He went to his colonel and asked for leave, and bidding good-bye to his
fellow-officers, gave his men four bucketfuls of vodka as a farewell treat, and got ready to go.
There was a war in the Caucasus at the time. The roads were not safe by day or by night. If a Russian ventured away from his fort, the Tartars either killed him or took him off to the hills. So it had been arranged that a body of soldiers should march from fortress to fortress to convoy any person who wanted to travel. The soldiers marched in front and behind; the travellers in between them.
It was summer. At daybreak the baggage-train was loaded behind the fort; the convoy came out and started along the road. Jilin was on horseback; his things were on a cart with the baggage-train.
They had about twenty miles to go. The baggage-train moved along slowly; now the soldiers would stop, now a wheel came off a cart, now a horse would refuse to go on, and then everybody had to wait.
It was already past noon and they had not covered half the distance. It was hot, dusty, the sun scorching and no shade at all—bare steppe, with not a tree or a bush the whole way.
Jilin rode on ahead and stopped to wait until the baggage-train should catch him up. He heard the signal-horn sounded; the company had stopped again. Jilin thought, “Why shouldn’t I go on alone without the soldiers? I have a good horse, and if I come across any Tartars I can easily gallop away. I wonder if it would be safe?”
As he stood there thinking it over, another officer, by the name of Kostilin, rode up with a rifle and said, “Let us go on alone, Jilin. I’m dreadfully hungry, and the heat’s unbearable. My shirt is wringing wet.”
Kostilin was a big man and stout; his face was burning red, and the perspiration poured from his brow.
Jilin deliberated for a moment and said, “Is your rifle loaded?”
“It is.”
“Very well; come along. Only the condition is to be that we don’t part.”
And they set off down the road alone. They were riding along the steppe talking together and keeping a sharp look-out from side to side. They could see a long way round them. When they left the steppe they came to a road running down a valley between two hills. And Jilin said, “Let’s go up on that hill and look about; some Tartars might easily spring out from the hills and we shouldn’t see them.”
“What’s the use?” Kostilin said. “We’d better go on.”
Jilin paid no heed to him.
“You wait down here,” he said, “and I’ll just go up and have a look.” And he turned his horse to the left up the hill. Jilin’s horse was a hunter and carried him up the hill as though it had wings. He had bought it for a hundred roubles as a colt, and broken it in himself. When he reached the top of the hill he saw some thirty Tartars a few paces ahead of him. He turned hastily, but the Tartars had seen him and gave chase down the hill, getting their rifles out as they went. Jilin bounded down as fast as the horse’s legs would carry him, crying out to Kostilin, “Get your rifle ready!” And in thought he said to his horse, “Get me out of this, my beauty; don’t stumble, or I’m lost. Once I reach the rifle, they shan’t take me alive!”
But Kostilin, instead of waiting when he saw the Tartars, set off full gallop in the direction of the fortress, lashing his horse now on one side, now on the other, and the horse’s switching tail was all that could be seen of him in the clouds of dust.
Jilin saw that it was all up with him. The rifle was gone; with a sword alone he could do nothing. He turned his horse in the direction of the convoy, hoping to escape, but six Tartars rushed ahead to cut him off. His horse was a good one, but theirs were better, and they were trying to cross his path. He wanted to turn in another direction, but his horse could not pull up and dashed on straight towards the Tartars. A red-bearded Tartar on a grey horse caught Jilin’s eyes. He was yelling and showing his teeth and pointing his rifle at him.
“I know what devils you are!” Jilin thought. “If you take me alive, you’ll put me in a pit and have me flogged. I’ll not be taken alive!”
Though Jilin was a little man, he was brave. He drew his sword and dashed at the red-bearded Tartar, thinking, “I’ll either ride him down or kill him with my sword.”
But he had no time to reach the Tartar; he was fired at from behind and his horse was hit. It fell to the ground full weight, pinning Jilin’s leg. He attempted to rise, but two evil-smelling Tartars were already sitting on him, twisting his arms behind him. He struggled, flung the Tartars off, but three others leapt from their horses and fell on him, beating him on the head with the butt ends of their rifles. A mist rose before his eyes and he staggered. The Tartars seized him, and taking spare girths from their saddles twisted his hands behind him and tied them with a Tartar knot and dragged him to the saddle. They knocked off his cap, pulled off his boots, searched him all over, took his money and watch and tore his clothes. Jilin looked round at his horse. The poor creature lay on its side just as it had fallen, struggling with its legs in the air and unable to get them to the ground. There was a hole in its head from which the dark blood was oozing, laying the dust for a yard around.
One of the Tartars approached it and took off the saddle. As it was still struggling, he drew a dagger and cut its windpipe. A whistling sound came from its throat; the horse gave a shudder and died.
The Tartars took off the saddle and strappings. The red-bearded Tartar mounted his horse, the others lifted Jilin into the saddle behind him, and, to prevent his falling off, they strapped him to the Tartar’s girdle, and took him off to the hills.
Jilin sat behind the Tartar, rocking from side to side, his face touching the evil-smelling Tartar’s back. All he could see was the man’s broad back and sinewy neck, the closely-shaven bluish nape peeping out from beneath his cap. Jilin had a wound in his head, from which the blood poured and congealed over his eyes, but he could not shift his position on the saddle, nor wipe off the blood. His arms were twisted so far behind his back that his collar-bones ached. They rode over the hills for some time, then they came to a river which they forded and got out on to a road running down a valley. Jilin wanted to see where they were going, but his eyes were matted with blood and he could not move.
It began to get dark; they forded another river and rode up a rocky hill; there was a smell of smoke and a barking of dogs. They had reached a Tartar village. The Tartars got off their horses; the Tartar children gathered round Jilin, yelling and throwing stones at him. A Tartar drove them away, took Jilin off the horse and called his servant. A man with high cheek-bones came up, clad in nothing but a shirt, and that so torn that his breast was bare. The Tartar gave him some order. The man brought some shackles, two blocks of oak with iron rings attached, and a clasp and lock was fixed to one of the rings.
They untied Jilin’s arms, put on the shackles, took him to a shed, pushed him in and locked the door. Jilin fell on to a dung heap. He groped about in the darkness to find a softer place and lay down.
Jilin did not sleep the whole of that night. The nights were short. Through a chink he saw that it was getting light. He got up, made the chink a little bigger and peeped out.
He saw a road at the foot of a hill, to the right of which was a Tartar hut with two trees near it. A black dog lay on the threshold and a goat and kids were moving about and swishing their tails. Then he saw a young Tartar woman coming from the direction of the hill. She wore a coloured blouse and trousers with a girdle round her waist, high boots on her feet and a kerchief on her head, on which she was carrying a tin pitcher of water. Her back moved gracefully as she walked; she was leading a closely-shaven Tartar boy, who wore nothing but a shirt. The Tartar woman went into the hut with the water; the red-bearded Tartar of yesterday came out in a silken tunic, a silver-hilted knife stuck in his girdle and slippers on bare feet. A high, black sheepskin cap was pushed far back on his head. He stretched himself as he came out and stroked his red beard. He gave some order to his servant and went away.
Then two boys rode past. They had been to water their horses and the horses’ noses were still wet. Some more closely-shaven boys came out, dressed only in shirts with no trousers. A whole group of them came up to the shed, and taking up a piece of stick, they thrust it through the chink. Jilin grunted at them and the boys ran off, yelling, their little white knees gleaming as they went.
Jilin was thirsty; his throat was parched. “If only some one would come,” he thought. Soon the door of the shed opened and the red-bearded Tartar entered with another, shorter than he, and dark. He had bright black eyes, a ruddy complexion and a short beard. He had a jolly face, and was always laughing. This man was dressed better than the first, in a blue silken tunic, trimmed with braid. The knife in his broad girdle was of silver, the shoes on his feet were of red morocco, embroidered in silver thread, and over these he wore a thicker pair of shoes. His cap was high and of white sheepskin.
The red-bearded Tartar entered, muttering some angry words. He leant against the doorpost, playing with his dagger and looking askance at Jilin, like a wolf. The dark man, quick and lively and moving as if on springs, came up to Jilin and squatted down in front of him, showing his teeth. He clapped Jilin on the shoulder and began to jabber something in his own language, blinking his eyes and clacking his tongue. “Good Russ! Good Russ!” he said.
Jilin understood nothing. “I am thirsty; give me some water,” he said.
The dark man laughed. “Good Russ!” he kept on saying.
Jilin made signs with his lips and hands that he wanted some water. The dark man laughed, and putting his head out at the door, he called to some one “Dina!”
A little girl came up. She was about thirteen, slight and thin, her face resembling the dark man’s. She was obviously his daughter. She, too, had bright, black eyes and a rosy complexion. She was clad in a long blue blouse with broad sleeves, and loose at the waist—the hem and front and sleeves were embroidered in red. She wore trousers and slippers and shoes with high heels over them; she had a necklace round her throat made out of Russian coins. Her head was bare. Her black plait was tied with a ribbon, the ends of which were trimmed with silver roubles.
Her father said something to her. She ran away and came back again with a tin jug of water. She gave it to Jilin and also squatted down in front of him, huddled up, so that her shoulders came lower than her knees. She sat staring at Jilin as he drank, as at some strange animal.
Jilin handed her back the jug. She took it and bounded out like a wild goat. Even her father could not help laughing. He sent her off somewhere else. She ran away with the jug and brought back some unleavened bread on a round wooden platter, and huddling down in front of him once more, she again stared at him open-eyed.
The Tartars went out and locked the door.
After a while the red-bearded man’s servant came up and called to Jilin. He too, did not know Russian, only Jilin understood that he wanted him to go somewhere.
Jilin followed him limping, for the shackles impeded his walking. He followed the servant. They came to a Tartar village, consisting of about ten houses, a Tartar church with a dome on top in the midst of them. In front of one house stood three saddled horses; some boys were holding them by their bridles. The dark little Tartar rushed out of this house and beckoned to Jilin to come to him. He laughed, jabbered something in his own tongue and went in again. Jilin came to the house. The room was large, the mud walls smoothly plastered. Near the front wall lay a pile of brightly coloured feather beds, on the side walls hung rich rugs with rifles and pistols and swords fastened to them, all inlaid in silver. At one wall was a small stove on a level with the earthen floor, which was beautifully clean. In the near corner a felt carpet was spread on which were rich rugs and down cushions. On these rugs, in slippers only, sat some Tartars—the dark one, the red-bearded one and three guests. All had down cushions at their backs. In front of them, on a wooden platter, were some millet pancakes, some melted butter in a cup and a jug of Tartar beer. They took the pancakes up with their fingers, and their hands were all greasy with the butter.
The dark Tartar jumped up and bade Jilin sit down, not on the rugs, but on the bare floor. Then he sat down on his rug again, and treated his guests to more pancakes and beer. The servant made Jilin sit down in the place assigned to him, took off his overshoes, which he placed by the door where the other shoes were standing, and sat down on the felt carpet, nearer to his master. He watched the others eating, his mouth watering. When the Tartars had finished, a woman came in dressed like the girl in trousers and a kerchief on her head. She cleared away the remains, and brought a basin and a narrow-necked jug of water. The Tartars washed their hands, laid them together, fell on their knees and said their prayers in their own tongue. When they had finished one of the guests turned to Jilin and addressed him in Russian.
“You were captured by Kasi-Mohammed,” he said, indicating the red-bearded Tartar, “but he has given you to Abdul-Murat.” And he indicated the dark Tartar. “Abdul-Murat is now your master.”
Jilin was silent.
Abdul-Murat now began to speak, pointing at Jilin and laughing. “A soldier Russ, a good Russ,” he said.
And the interpreter said, “He wants you to write home asking your people to send a ransom for you. When the money comes, he will let you go.”
Jilin reflected and said, “How much does he want?”
The Tartars deliberated among themselves; the interpreter said, “Three thousand roubles.”
“I can’t pay as much as that,” Jilin said.
Abdul leapt up and began to gesticulate violently. He was saying something to Jilin, thinking that he would understand.
“How much will you give?” the interpreter asked.
After reflection Jilin said, “Five hundred roubles.”
At this the Tartars all began talking together. Abdul shouted at the red-bearded Tartar, jabbering away till he foamed at the mouth. The red-bearded Tartar merely frowned and clacked his tongue.
They grew silent and the interpreter said, “The master thinks a ransom of five hundred roubles is not enough. He himself paid two hundred roubles for you. Kasi-Mohammed was in his debt, and he took you in payment. He wants three thousand roubles and refuses to let you go for less. If you won’t pay the money you’ll be flung into a pit and flogged.”
“The more you show you’re afraid of them, the worse it is,” Jilin thought. He leapt to his feet and said, “Tell the dog that if he begins to threaten me, he shan’t have a farthing! I won’t write home at all! I was never afraid of you, and I’m not going to be now, you dogs!”
The interpreter conveyed his words, and again the Tartars began to speak all at once.
They jabbered for a long time, then the dark one sprang up and came to Jilin.
“Russ,” he said, “djigit, djigit Russ!” (Djigit in their tongue means brave.) He laughed and said a few words to the interpreter, who turned to Jilin.
“Will you give a thousand roubles?”
Jilin stuck to his own.
“I won’t give more than five hundred, not if you kill me.”
The Tartars conferred together, and sent the servant off somewhere, and when he was gone they stared now at Jilin, now at the door.
The servant returned, followed by a stout, bare-footed man, in torn clothes. On his feet were also shackles. Jilin gave an exclamation of surprise. It was Kostilin. He, too, had been captured then. The Tartars sat them down side by side, and they began to tell each other of their experiences, the Tartars looking on in silence. Jilin told Kostilin what had happened to him, and Kostilin told Jilin that his horse had got tired, his rifle missed fire, and that this same Abdul had caught him up and captured him.
Abdul jumped up and began to speak, pointing at Kostilin. The interpreter explained that they both belonged to the same master, and that the one who would produce the money first would be the first to be set free.
“See how quiet your comrade is,” he said to Jilin. “You get angry and he has written home asking to have five thousand roubles sent him. He will be well fed, and no one will do him any harm.”
And Jilin said, “My comrade can do what he likes. He may be rich, and I am not. I won’t go back on my word. You can kill me if you like, but you get no advantage by that; I won’t write for more than five hundred roubles.”
The Tartars were silent. Suddenly Abdul sprang up, took out a pen, ink and a scrap of paper from a little box, put them in Jilin’s hands and slapping him on the shoulder, said, “Write.” He had agreed to the five hundred roubles.
“One moment,” Jilin said to the interpreter; “tell him that he must feed and clothe us well, and that he must put us together so that we don’t feel so lonely, and he must remove our shackles.”
He looked at Abdul as he spoke and smiled. Abdul too smiled and said, “You shall have the best of clothes—coats and boots fit to be married in, and you shall be fed like princes, and you can be together in the shed if you like, but I can’t take off the shackles because you might escape. You shall have them removed at night.” He rushed up to Jilin and slapped him on the shoulder. “Fine fellow! fine fellow!” he said.
Jilin wrote the letter, but did not address it correctly, so that it should not reach home. “I will escape, somehow,” he thought.
Jilin and Kostilin were taken back to the shed. They were given some straw, a jug of water and bread, two old coats and some worn boots, evidently taken from the bodies of dead soldiers. At night their shackles were removed and they were locked in the shed.
Thus Jilin and his comrade lived for a month. Their master was always cheerful. “You, good fellow, Ivan! I, Abdul, good fellow, too!” But he fed them badly. All the food they got was some unleavened bread of millet flour, or millet cakes, and sometimes nothing but raw dough.
Kostilin sent another letter home and did nothing but mope and wait for the money to arrive. He would sit in the barn day after day, either counting the days for the letter to come or sleeping. Jilin knew that his letter would not reach home, but he never wrote another.
“Where on earth could mother get so much money from?” he thought. “She lived mostly on what I used to send her, and if she has to procure five hundred roubles she’ll be quite ruined. With God’s help I’ll get away myself.”
So he kept his eyes open, planning how to run away.
He would walk about the village whistling, or doing something with his hands, such as modelling dolls out of clay, or plaiting baskets out of twigs. Jilin was very clever with his hands.
One day he modelled a doll with a nose, arms and legs and in a Tartar shirt, and he put this doll on the roof of the shed. The Tartar girls went to fetch water. The master’s daughter Dina caught sight of the doll, and called to the others. They put down their pitchers and looked up laughing. Jilin took down the doll and held it out to them. They laughed, but dared not take it. He left the doll and went into the shed to see what would happen.
Dina ran up, looked about her, snatched up the doll and ran off with it.
The following morning, at daybreak, Dina came out on the threshold with the doll. She had bedecked it in bits of red stuff, and was rocking it to and fro like a baby and singing a lullaby. An old woman came out and began to scold her. She snatched the doll away from the child and broke it, and sent Dina off to her work.
Jilin made another doll—a better one this time—and gave it to Dina.
One day Dina brought Jilin a jug, and sitting down, she looked up at him, laughing and pointing to the jug.
“What is she so pleased about?” Jilin thought. He took up the jug to have a drink, thinking it was full of water, but it turned out to be milk. “How nice!” he said, and finished it. Dina was overjoyed.
“Nice, nice, Ivan!” She jumped up and clapped her hands in glee, then she seized the jug and ran away.
After that she brought Jilin milk in secret every day. When the Tartar women used to make cheese cakes out of goat’s milk, which they baked on the roof, she would steal some and bring them to him. Once the master killed a sheep, and Dina brought Jilin a piece of the flesh hidden in her sleeve. She would throw the things down and run away.
One day there was a terrible storm; the rain poured down in torrents for a whole hour. The rivers became turbid. At the ford, the water rose till it was seven feet high and the current was so strong that it moved the stones along. Rivulets flowed everywhere and there was a roar in the hills. After the storm streams flowed down the village everywhere. Jilin asked his master for a knife, and with it he shaped a small cylinder and made a wheel out of a piece of board, to which he fixed two dolls, one on each side. The little girls brought him some bits of stuff with which he dressed the dolls—one as a peasant, the other as a peasant woman. He made them fast and set the wheel so that the stream should work it. When the wheel began to whirl the dolls danced.
The whole village gathered round—boys and girls and women and men came to look on, the latter clacking their tongues.
“Ah, Russ! Ah, Ivan!” they said.
Abdul had a Russian watch which was broken. He called Jilin and showed it to him. Jilin said, “Give it to me and I’ll mend it.”
He took it to pieces with the knife, sorted the pieces out, put them together again and the watch went quite well.
The master was pleased and presented him with one of his old tunics, all in holes. Jilin had to take it, besides, it would come in useful to cover up with at night.
From that day Jilin’s fame as a man skilled in handiworks spread fast. People began to flock to him from distant villages, one bringing the lock of a rifle or a pistol that wanted mending; another a watch or a clock. The master gave him some tools—pincers, gimlets and a file.
One day a Tartar fell ill, and they came to Jilin, saying, “Come and heal him.” Jilin did not know how to heal the sick, but he went just the same thinking, “The man will recover of his own accord.” He disappeared into the shed and mixed up some sand and water. In the presence of the Tartars he mumbled some words over the mixture, and gave it to the sick man to drink. Fortunately the Tartar got well.
Jilin began to understand a little of their tongue. Some of the Tartars got quite used to him, and when they wanted him would call “Ivan, Ivan!” Others again looked at him askance as at some wild beast.
The red-bearded Tartar did not like Jilin. He frowned when he saw him, and either turned away or cursed. There was another old man, who did not live in the village, but somewhere at the foot of a hill. He came to the village only sometimes. Jilin saw him when the man went to the Mosque to say his prayers. He was short and had a white towel wound round his cap. His beard and moustaches were clipped and white as down; his face was wrinkled and brick-red. He had a hooked nose like a hawk’s, and cruel grey eyes. He had no teeth, but two tusks in front. He would pass with his turban on his head, leaning on his staff, and peering round like a wolf. When he saw Jilin he snorted and turned away.
One day Jilin went to the hills to find out where the old man lived. He strolled down a path and saw a little garden and a stone wall; within the stone wall were wild cherry trees and peaches and a hut with a flat roof. He came a little closer and saw some hives made of plaited straw and humming bees flying hither and thither. The old man was on his knees, doing something to the hives. Jilin stood on tiptoe in order to get a better view; his shackles rattled. The old man turned and gave a yell and pulling a pistol out of his belt he aimed at Jilin, who just managed to shield himself behind the stone wall.
The old man came to the master to complain. The master summoned Jilin and laughing, asked him, “Why did you go to the old man’s place?”
“I didn’t mean to do him any harm,” he said. “I only wanted to see how he lived.”
The master conveyed his words to the old man.
But the old man was angry. He jabbered away, showing his tusks, and shook his fists menacingly at Jilin.
Jilin could not understand all he said, but he gathered that the old man was warning the master not to keep any Russians about the place, but to have them all killed.
The old man went away.
Jilin asked the master who the old man was, and the master said, “He is a great man! He was the bravest of us all, and killed many Russians, and he was rich, too. He had three wives and eight sons, who all lived in the same village. The Russians came, destroyed the village, and killed seven of his sons. One son only remained, and he surrendered to the Russians. The old man followed them, and also gave himself up. He lived with the Russians for three months, when he found his son. With his own hand he killed him and escaped. After that he gave up fighting. He went to Mecca to pray to God; that is why he wears a turban. Any man who has been to Mecca is called a Hadji and has to wear a turban. He does not like you Russians. He wanted me to kill you, but I can’t kill you because I paid money for you. Besides, I have taken a fancy to you, Ivan; I would not let you go at all, if I had not given my word.” He laughed and added in Russian, “You are a good fellow, Ivan, and I, Abdul, am a good fellow too.”
Jilin lived in this way for a month. During the day he wandered about the village or busied himself with some handicraft, and at night he dug in his shed. The digging was difficult because of the stones, but he worked away at them with his file and at last made a hole beneath the wall big enough to crawl through. “If only I knew the neighbourhood well and which way to turn,” he thought; “the Tartars would not tell me.”
He chose a day when the master was away, left the village after dinner and went up a hill, hoping to find out the lie of the land from there. But before the master departed he told one of his boys to look after Jilin and not let him out of his sight. The boy ran after Jilin, crying, “Don’t go away! My father told you not to! I’ll call for help!”
Jilin tried to soothe him.
“I’m not going far,” he said. “I only want to go to the top of that hill to find a certain herb with which to cure your people when they are sick. Come with me; I can’t run away with the shackles on my feet. I’ll make you a bow and some arrows to-morrow.”
After some persuasion the boy went with him. The hill did not seem very far off, but it was difficult to get there shackled as he was. He struggled and struggled until he got to the top. Jilin sat down and began to look about him. To the south, beyond the shed, a herd of horses could be seen in a valley, and at the bottom of the valley was another village. Beyond the village was a steep hill and another hill beyond that. Between the two hills was a dark patch that looked like a wood; hill upon hill rose beyond it, and higher than all rose the snow-capped mountains as white as sugar, the peak of one standing out above the rest. To the east and west were other such hills; here and there were villages in the valleys from which the smoke curled up. “This is all Tartar country,” he thought. He looked in the direction of Russia—below was a river, and the village he lived in, surrounded by gardens. On the river bank, looking as tiny as dolls, sat Tartar women, washing clothes. Beyond the village was a hill, lower than the one to the south and beyond that two wooded hills. Between these two hills was a plain and away in the distance on this plain smoke seemed to rise. Jilin tried to recollect where the sun rose and set when he lived in the fort. He came to the conclusion that the fortress must lie in that very valley. Between these two hills would he have to make his way when he escaped.
The sun began to set. The snow-clad mountains turned from white to red; the dark mountains grew darker still; a vapour rose from the valley, and the plain where he supposed the fortress to be seemed on fire with the sunset’s glow. Jilin gazed intently; something seemed to quiver in that plain, like smoke rising from a chimney, and Jilin felt sure that the Russian fortress was there.
It was getting late. The Mullah’s cry was heard. The flocks and herds were driven home; the cows were lowing. The boy kept on begging “Come home,” but Jilin had no desire to move.
They returned home. “Now that I know the place I must lose no time in running away,” Jilin thought. He wanted to escape that very night, for the nights were dark then; the moon had waned, but as luck would have it, the Tartars returned that evening. Sometimes when they brought cattle home they would come back in a jolly mood, but this time there were no cattle, and on the saddle of his horse they brought back the red-bearded Tartar’s brother who had been killed. They returned in a gloomy mood and gathered the village together for the burial. Jilin, too, came out to look on. They wrapped the body in a sheet and without a coffin carried it out and laid it on the grass beneath some plane-trees. The Mullah arrived and the old men; they wrapped towels around their caps, took off their shoes, and squatted down on their heels before the body. In front was the Mullah, behind him three old men in turbans, and behind them three other Tartars. They sat silent, eyes downcast, for a long time, then the Mullah raised his head and said, “Allah!” (meaning God). After this word he again bowed his head, and there was another long silence. They all sat motionless. Again the Mullah raised his head and said “Allah!” All repeated “Allah!” and again there was silence. The dead man lay on the grass motionless and the others, too, seemed dead. Not a single man moved. The only sound to be heard was the rustling of the leaves on the plane-trees. After a while the Mullah said a prayer; all rose, and raising the dead man with their hands they carried him away. They brought him to a pit. It was not an ordinary pit, but hollowed out under the ground like a vault. They lifted the dead man under the arms, bent him into a sitting posture and let him down into the pit, gently, his hands folded in front of him.
The master’s servant brought some green rushes which they stuffed into the pit, then they hastily covered it with earth, levelled the ground properly and placed a stone, upright, at the head of the grave. They stamped down the soil and once more sat down round the grave side by side. For a long time they were silent.
“Allah! Allah!” they sighed and rose.
The red-bearded Tartar gave some money to the old men, then he took a whip, struck himself three times on the forehead and went home.
In the morning Jilin saw the red-bearded Tartar leading a mare out of the village, followed by three other Tartars. When they left the village behind them the red-bearded Tartar took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves—his arms were strong and muscular—and taking out a dagger, he sharpened it on a whetstone. The other Tartars raised the mare’s head and he cut her throat. The mare dropped down and he began to skin her with his big hands. Women and girls came up and washed the entrails. The mare was cut up and the pieces carried to the red Tartar’s hut, where the whole village gathered for a funeral feast.
For three days they ate the mare’s flesh and drank beer in honour of the dead man. All the Tartars were at home. On the fourth day, about dinner time, Jilin saw that they were preparing to go away somewhere. The horses were brought out, they got ready, and about ten of the Tartars, the red one among them, went away, Abdul remaining at home. There was a new moon and the nights were still dark.
“To-night we must escape,” Jilin thought, and he unfolded his plan to Kostilin. But Kostilin was afraid.
“How can we run away? We don’t know the way even.”
“I know the way.”
“We couldn’t get there in one night.”
“If we can’t, we can hide in the wood. I’ve got some cakes here for us to eat. What’s the good of sitting here? If they send your ransom, well and good, but supposing they can’t raise the money? The Tartars are getting vicious because our people have killed one of their men. They will probably kill us.”
Kostilin reflected.
“Very well; let us go,” he said.
Jilin went down the hole and made it a little bigger so that Kostilin could crawl through, then they sat down to wait till all grew quiet in the village.
When the Tartars had all retired to rest Jilin crawled under the wall and got outside. “Follow me,” he whispered to Kostilin.
Kostilin crept into the hole, but his foot hit against a stone and made a clatter. The master had a speckled watch-dog—a vicious creature it was, called Ulashin. The dog growled and rushed forward, followed by other dogs. Jilin gave a low whistle and threw it a cake. Ulashin recognized him, wagged his tail and ceased his growling.
The master heard the dog and called from the hut, “Hait, hait, Ulashin!”
But Jilin stroked the dog by the ears and it did not move. It rubbed itself against Jilin’s legs and wagged its tail.
They sat crouching round the corner. All grew quiet; only a sheep was heard to cough in a barn, and below, the water rippled over the stones. It was dark; the stars were high in the sky and the new moon looked red as it set behind the hill, horns upwards. A mist as white as milk lay over the valley.
Jilin got up and turning to Kostilin said, “Let us come, brother.”
They set off, but they had no sooner done so than the Mullah intoned from the roof “Allah Besmilla! Ilrachman!” That meant that the people would be going to the Mosque. They sat down again, crouching behind the wall. For a long time they sat there waiting till the people went past. All grew quiet again.
“Now then; with God’s help we must get away,” Jilin said.
They crossed themselves and started. They went through the yard and downhill to the river which they forded and came out into the valley. The mist hung low and dense; above, the stars were visible. By the stars Jilin could tell the direction they had to take. It was cool in the mist and walking was easy, only their boots were uncomfortable, being old and worn out. Jilin cast his off and went bare-foot. He leapt over the stones, gazing up at the stars. Kostilin began to lag behind.
“Slower, please,” he said, “these cursed boots hurt my feet.”
“Take them off and you’ll find it easier.”
Kostilin too went barefoot, but that was still worse. The stones cut his feet and he lagged behind more than ever.
Jilin said to him, “The cuts on your feet will heal up soon enough, but if the Tartars catch us it will be much more serious; they will kill us.”
Kostilin did not say anything, but walked along, groaning.
They walked along the valley for a long time, when suddenly they heard the barking of dogs. Jilin stopped and looked about him. He climbed up the hill on all fours.
“We mistook our way, and turned to the right. Another Tartar village lies here; I saw it from the hill the other day. We must turn back and go to the left up the hill. There must be a wood here.”
And Kostilin said, “Let us rest a while; my feet are all bleeding.”
“They’ll get better in good time, brother. Walk more lightly—like this.”
And Jilin turned back and went up the hill to the left into the wood. Kostilin kept on lagging behind and groaning. Jilin remonstrated with him and walked on ahead.
They reached the top of the hill, where they found a wood, as Jilin had surmised. They went into it. The brambles tore the last of their clothes. At last they found a path and followed it.
“Stop!” Jilin said. There was a trampling of hoofs on the path. They listened. It sounded like the trampling of horses’ hoofs, but the sound ceased. They moved on and again they heard the trampling. They stopped again, and the sound ceased. Jilin crept nearer and in a patch of light on the path he saw something standing. It seemed like a horse, yet not like a horse, and it had something queer on its back that was not a man. The creature snorted. “What a strange thing!” Jilin thought, and gave a low whistle. The animal bounded off the path into the thicket and there was a sound of cracking branches as though a storm had swept through the wood.
Kostilin fell to the ground in terror; Jilin laughed, saying, “It’s a stag. Can’t you hear how it’s breaking the branches with its antlers? We are afraid of him and he is afraid of us.”
They went on further. The Great Bear was already setting and the dawn was not far off. They did not know whether they were going in the right direction. It seemed to Jilin that the Tartars had brought him along this path when they captured him and that it was still another seven miles to the fortress, but he had nothing certain to go by, and at night one could easily mistake the way.
Kostilin dropped to the ground and said, “Do what you like, but I can’t go any further. My legs won’t carry me.”
Jilin attempted persuasion.
“It’s no good,” Kostilin said; “I can’t go on.”
Jilin grew angry and vented his disgust.
“Then I’m going alone—good-bye.”
Kostilin jumped up and followed.
They walked another three miles. The mist grew denser; they could not see ahead of them and the stars were no longer visible.
They suddenly heard a trampling of horses coming from the direction in which they were going. They could hear the horse’s hoofs hit against the stones. Jilin lay flat down and put his ear to the ground to listen.
“There is certainly a horseman coming towards us,” he said. They ran off the path into the thicket and sat down to wait. After a while Jilin crept out into the path to look. A mounted Tartar was coming along, driving a cow and humming softly to himself. When he had passed Jilin turned to Kostilin, “Thank God the danger is over. Come, let us go.”
Kostilin attempted to rise, but dropped down again.
“I can’t, I can’t! I’ve no more strength left.”
The man was heavy and stout and had perspired freely. The heavy mist had chilled him, tired and bleeding as he was, and made him quite stiff. Jilin tried to lift him, but Kostilin cried out, “Oh, it hurts!”
Jilin turned to stone.
“Why did you shout? The Tartar is still near; he will have heard you,” he remonstrated, while to himself he thought, “The man is evidently exhausted; what shall I do with him? I can’t desert him.” “Come,” he said, “climb on to my back, then, and I’ll carry you if you really can’t walk.”
He helped Kostilin up, put his arms under his thighs and carried him on to the path.
“For heaven’s sake don’t put your arms round my neck or you’ll throttle me. Hold on to my shoulders.”
It was hard work for Jilin; his feet, too, were bleeding and tired. He bent down now and then to get him in a more comfortable position, or jerked him up so that he sat higher up, and went on his weary way.
The Tartar had evidently heard Kostilin’s cry. Jilin heard some one following behind, calling out in the Tartar tongue. Jilin rushed into the thicket. The Tartar seized his gun and aimed; the shot missed; the Tartar yelled and galloped down the path.
“I’m afraid we’re lost,” Jilin said. “He’ll collect the Tartars to hunt us down. If we don’t cover a couple of miles before they’ve time to set out, nothing will save us.” To himself he thought, “Why the devil did I saddle myself with this block? I should have got there long ago had I been alone.”
Kostilin said, “Why should you be caught because of me?”
“I can’t go alone; it would be mean to desert a comrade.”
Again he raised Kostilin on to his shoulders and went on. They walked along for another half-mile. They were still in the wood and could not see the end of it. The mist had dispersed; the clouds seemed to gather; the stars were no longer visible. Jilin was worn out. They came to a spring walled in by stones. He stopped and put Kostilin down.
“Let us rest a minute or two and have a drink and a bite of this cake. We can’t be very far off now.”
He had no sooner lain down to take a drink from the spring than he heard the stamping of horses behind him. Again they rushed into the thicket to the right and lay down on a slope.
They heard a sound of Tartar voices. The Tartars stopped at the very spot where they had turned off the path. They seemed to confer for a bit and then set a dog on the scent. There was a crackling among the bushes and a strange dog appeared. It stopped and began to bark. The Tartars followed it. They were also strangers. They bound Jilin and Kostilin and took them off on their horses.
When they had ridden for about two miles they were met by the master, Abdul, and two other Tartars. He exchanged some words with the strange Tartars, after which Jilin and Kostilin were removed to his horses and he took them back to the village.
Abdul was no longer laughing, and did not say a word to them.
They reached the village at daybreak and were placed in the street. The children gathered round them and threw stones at them and lashed them with whips, yelling all the time.