This Kostuilin, by the way, was a thick, heavy, red-faced man, and the sweat was pouring from him. Zhilin thought for a moment, and then said:
"Is your musket loaded?"
"Yes, it is loaded."
"Well, we'll go, but on one condition — we must keep together."
And they cantered on in front along the road. They went through the steppe, and as they chatted together they kept glancing on every side of them. They could see for a great distance around them.
The steppe at last had come to an end, and the way lay towards a ravine between two mountains.
"What are you looking at? Let us go straight on!" said Kostuilin. But Zhilin did not listen to him.
"No," said he, "you just wait below and I'll go up and have a look round."
And he urged his horse to the left up the mountain. The horse beneath Zhilin was a good hunter (he had bought it from the horse-fold while still a foal for a hundred roubles, and had broken it in himself), it carried him up the steep ascent as if on wings. He needed but a single glance around — there right in front of them, not a furlong ahead, was a whole heap of Tatars, thirty men at least. He no sooner saw them than he set about turning, but the Tatars had seen him too, and posted after him, drawing their muskets while in full career. Zhilin galloped down the slope as fast as his horse's legs could carry him, at the same time shouting to Kostuilin :
"Out with the muskets! And you, my bea
