A Hero of Our Time [5]
her, and she, for her part, stole glances at him often enough from under her lashes. Pechorin, however, was not the only one who was admiring the pretty princess; another pair of eyes, fixed and fiery, were gazing at her from the corner of the room. I took a good look at their owner, and recognised my old acquaintance Kazbich, who, you must know, was neither exactly 'friendly' nor yet the other thing. He was an object of much suspicion, although he had never actually been caught at any knavery. He used to bring rams to our fortress and sell them cheaply; only he never would haggle; whatever he demanded at first you had to give. He would have his throat cut rather than come down in price. He had the reputation of being fond of roaming on the far side of the Kuban with the Abreks; and, to tell the truth, he had a regular thief's visage. A little, wizened, broad-shouldered fellow he was -- but smart, I can tell you, smart as the very devil! His tunic was always worn out and patched, but his weapons were mounted in silver. His horse was renowned throughout Kabardia -- and, indeed, a better one it would be impossible to imagine! Not without good reason did all the other horsemen envy Kazbich, and on more than one occasion they had attempted to steal the horse, but they had never succeeded. I seem to see the animal before me now -- black as coal, with legs like bow-strings and eyes as fine as Bela's! How strong he was too! He would gallop as much as fifty versts at a stretch! And he was well trained besides -- he would trot behind his master like a dog, and actually knew his voice! Kazbich never used to tether him either -- just the very horse for a robber! . . .
"On that evening Kazbich was more sullen than ever, and I noticed that he was wearing a coat of mail under his tunic. 'He hasn't got that coat of mail on for nothing,' I thought. 'He has some plot in his head, I'll be bound!'
"It grew oppressively hot in the hut, and I went out into the air to cool myself. Night had fallen upon the mountains, and a mist was beginning to creep along the gorges.
"It occurred to me to pop in under the shed where our horses were standing, to see whether they had their fodder; and, besides, it is never any harm to take precautions. My horse was a splendid one too, and more than one Kabardian had already cast fond glances at it, repeating at the same time: 'Yakshi tkhe chok yakshi.'[1]
[1] "Good -- very good."
"I stole along the fence. Suddenly I heard voices, one of which I immediately recognised.
It was that of the young pickle, Azamat, our host's son. The other person spoke less and in a quieter tone.
"'What are they discussing there?' I won- dered. 'Surely it can't be my horse!' I squatted down beside the fence and proceeded to play the eavesdropper, trying not to let slip a single word. At times the noise of songs and the buzz of voices, escaping from the hut, drowned the conversation which I was finding interesting.
"'That's a splendid horse of yours,' Azamat was saying. 'If I were master of a house of my own and had a stud of three hundred mares, I would give half of it for your galloper, Kazbich!'
"'Aha! Kazbich!' I said to myself, and I called to mind the coat of mail.
"'Yes,' replied Kazbich, after an interval of silence. 'There is not such another to be found in all Kabardia. Once -- it was on the other side of the Terek -- I had ridden with the Abreks to seize the Russian herds. We had no luck, so we scattered in different directions. Four Cossacks dashed after me. I could actually hear the cries of the giaours behind me, and in front of me there was a dense forest. I crouched down in the saddle, committed myself to Allah, and, for the first time in my life, insulted my horse with a blow of the whip. Like a bird, he plunged among the branches; the sharp thorns tore my clothing, the dead boughs of the cork-elms struck against my face! My horse leaped over tree- trunks and burst his way through bushes with his chest! It would have been better for me to have abandoned him
"On that evening Kazbich was more sullen than ever, and I noticed that he was wearing a coat of mail under his tunic. 'He hasn't got that coat of mail on for nothing,' I thought. 'He has some plot in his head, I'll be bound!'
"It grew oppressively hot in the hut, and I went out into the air to cool myself. Night had fallen upon the mountains, and a mist was beginning to creep along the gorges.
"It occurred to me to pop in under the shed where our horses were standing, to see whether they had their fodder; and, besides, it is never any harm to take precautions. My horse was a splendid one too, and more than one Kabardian had already cast fond glances at it, repeating at the same time: 'Yakshi tkhe chok yakshi.'[1]
[1] "Good -- very good."
"I stole along the fence. Suddenly I heard voices, one of which I immediately recognised.
It was that of the young pickle, Azamat, our host's son. The other person spoke less and in a quieter tone.
"'What are they discussing there?' I won- dered. 'Surely it can't be my horse!' I squatted down beside the fence and proceeded to play the eavesdropper, trying not to let slip a single word. At times the noise of songs and the buzz of voices, escaping from the hut, drowned the conversation which I was finding interesting.
"'That's a splendid horse of yours,' Azamat was saying. 'If I were master of a house of my own and had a stud of three hundred mares, I would give half of it for your galloper, Kazbich!'
"'Aha! Kazbich!' I said to myself, and I called to mind the coat of mail.
"'Yes,' replied Kazbich, after an interval of silence. 'There is not such another to be found in all Kabardia. Once -- it was on the other side of the Terek -- I had ridden with the Abreks to seize the Russian herds. We had no luck, so we scattered in different directions. Four Cossacks dashed after me. I could actually hear the cries of the giaours behind me, and in front of me there was a dense forest. I crouched down in the saddle, committed myself to Allah, and, for the first time in my life, insulted my horse with a blow of the whip. Like a bird, he plunged among the branches; the sharp thorns tore my clothing, the dead boughs of the cork-elms struck against my face! My horse leaped over tree- trunks and burst his way through bushes with his chest! It would have been better for me to have abandoned him