A Hero of Our Time [6]
at the outskirts of the forest and concealed myself in it afoot, but it was a pity to part with him -- and the Prophet rewarded me. A few bullets whistled over my head. I could now hear the Cossacks, who had dismounted, running upon my tracks. Suddenly a deep gully opened before me. My galloper took thought -- and leaped. His hind hoofs slipped back off the opposite bank, and he re- mained hanging by his fore-feet. I dropped the bridle and threw myself into the hollow, thereby saving my horse, which jumped out. The Cossacks saw the whole scene, only not one of them got down to search for me, thinking probably that I had mortally injured myself; and I heard them rushing to catch my horse. My heart bled within me. I crept along the hollow through the thick grass -- then I looked around: it was the end of the forest. A few Cossacks were riding out from it on to the clearing, and there was my Karagyoz[1] galloping straight towards them. With a shout they all dashed forward. For a long, long time they pursued him, and one of them, in particular, was once or twice almost successful in throwing a lasso over his neck.
[1] Turkish for "Black-eye."
I trembled, dropped my eyes, and began to pray. After a few moments I looked up again, and there was my Karagyoz flying along, his tail waving -- free as the wind; and the giaours, on their jaded horses, were trailing along far behind, one after another, across the steppe. Wallah! It is true -- really true! Till late at night I lay in the hollow. Suddenly -- what do you think, Azamat? I heard in the darkness a horse trotting along the bank of the hollow, snorting, neighing, and beating the ground with his hoofs. I recognised my Karagyoz's voice; 'twas he, my comrade!" . . . Since that time we have never been parted!'
"And I could hear him patting his galloper's sleek neck with his hand, as he called him various fond names.
"'If I had a stud of a thousand mares,' said Azamat, 'I would give it all for your Karagyoz!'
"'Yok![1] I would not take it!' said Kazbich indifferently.
[1] "No!"
"'Listen, Kazbich,' said Azamat, trying to ingratiate himself with him. 'You are a kind- hearted man, you are a brave horseman, but my father is afraid of the Russians and will not allow me to go on the mountains. Give me your horse, and I will do anything you wish. I will steal my father's best rifle for you, or his sabre -- just as you like -- and his sabre is a genuine Gurda;[1] you have only to lay the edge against your hand, and it will cut you; a coat of mail like yours is nothing against it.'
[1] A particular kind of ancient and valued sabre.
"Kazbich remained silent.
"'The first time I saw your horse,' continued Azamat, 'when he was wheeling and leaping under you, his nostrils distended, and the flints flying in showers from under his hoofs, something I could not understand took place within my soul; and since that time I have been weary of everything. I have looked with disdain on my father's best gallopers; I have been ashamed to be seen on them, and yearning has taken pos- session of me. In my anguish I have spent whole days on the cliffs, and, every minute, my thoughts have kept turning to your black galloper with his graceful gait and his sleek back, straight as an arrow. With his keen, bright eyes he has looked into mine as if about to speak! . . . I shall die, Kazbich, if you will not sell him to me!' said Azamat, with trembling voice.
"I could hear him burst out weeping, and I must tell you that Azamat was a very stubborn lad, and that not for anything could tears be wrung from him, even when he was a little younger.
"In answer to his tears, I could hear some- thing like a laugh.
"'Listen,' said Azamat in a firm voice. 'You see, I am making up my mind for anything. If you like, I will steal my sister for you! How she dances! How she sings! And the way she embroiders with gold -- marvellous! Not even a Turkish Padishah[1] has had a wife like her! . . . Shall I? Wait for me to-morrow night, yonder, in the gorge where the torrent
[1] Turkish for "Black-eye."
I trembled, dropped my eyes, and began to pray. After a few moments I looked up again, and there was my Karagyoz flying along, his tail waving -- free as the wind; and the giaours, on their jaded horses, were trailing along far behind, one after another, across the steppe. Wallah! It is true -- really true! Till late at night I lay in the hollow. Suddenly -- what do you think, Azamat? I heard in the darkness a horse trotting along the bank of the hollow, snorting, neighing, and beating the ground with his hoofs. I recognised my Karagyoz's voice; 'twas he, my comrade!" . . . Since that time we have never been parted!'
"And I could hear him patting his galloper's sleek neck with his hand, as he called him various fond names.
"'If I had a stud of a thousand mares,' said Azamat, 'I would give it all for your Karagyoz!'
"'Yok![1] I would not take it!' said Kazbich indifferently.
[1] "No!"
"'Listen, Kazbich,' said Azamat, trying to ingratiate himself with him. 'You are a kind- hearted man, you are a brave horseman, but my father is afraid of the Russians and will not allow me to go on the mountains. Give me your horse, and I will do anything you wish. I will steal my father's best rifle for you, or his sabre -- just as you like -- and his sabre is a genuine Gurda;[1] you have only to lay the edge against your hand, and it will cut you; a coat of mail like yours is nothing against it.'
[1] A particular kind of ancient and valued sabre.
"Kazbich remained silent.
"'The first time I saw your horse,' continued Azamat, 'when he was wheeling and leaping under you, his nostrils distended, and the flints flying in showers from under his hoofs, something I could not understand took place within my soul; and since that time I have been weary of everything. I have looked with disdain on my father's best gallopers; I have been ashamed to be seen on them, and yearning has taken pos- session of me. In my anguish I have spent whole days on the cliffs, and, every minute, my thoughts have kept turning to your black galloper with his graceful gait and his sleek back, straight as an arrow. With his keen, bright eyes he has looked into mine as if about to speak! . . . I shall die, Kazbich, if you will not sell him to me!' said Azamat, with trembling voice.
"I could hear him burst out weeping, and I must tell you that Azamat was a very stubborn lad, and that not for anything could tears be wrung from him, even when he was a little younger.
"In answer to his tears, I could hear some- thing like a laugh.
"'Listen,' said Azamat in a firm voice. 'You see, I am making up my mind for anything. If you like, I will steal my sister for you! How she dances! How she sings! And the way she embroiders with gold -- marvellous! Not even a Turkish Padishah[1] has had a wife like her! . . . Shall I? Wait for me to-morrow night, yonder, in the gorge where the torrent