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Lev Tolstoy

A PRISONER IN THE CAUCASUS

The dark-haired one jumped up, told Zhilin to sit at some distance, not on the rug but on the bare floor, clambered back to his place and offered his guests pancakes and boza. The servant motioned Zhilin to his place, and then took off his own upper shoes, which he put beside the others near the door. He sat down on a felt mat closer to his masters, and gazed at them eating, slobbering and wiping his mouth.

When the men had finished their pancakes a Tatar woman came in, wearing a shirt the same as the girl’s, trousers and a kerchief. She took away the butter and plates, and brought an attractive wash-tub and a jug with a slender neck. The men washed their hands, then folded their arms, knelt, blew around them, and said their prayers. They spoke in their own tongue. Then one of the guests turned to Zhilin and addressed him in Russian.

‘You were captured,’ he said, ‘by Kazi-Muhamed’ – he pointed to the red-bearded Tatar – ‘and he gave you to Abdul-Murat’ – he pointed to the dark-haired one. ‘Abdul-Murat is now your master.’

Zhilin was silent.

Abdul-Murat began speaking, all the while laughing and pointing at Zhilin, and interposing, ‘Russky soldier, good Russky’.

The interpreter explained, ‘He orders you to write a letter home, telling your people to send a ransom for you. As soon as the money comes he will release you.’

Zhilin gave this some thought, and said, ‘How much does he want?’

The Tatars conferred; then the interpreter said, ‘Three thousand rubles.’

‘No,’ said Zhilin, ‘I have not got this kind of money.’

Abdul leapt to his feet and began waving his arms about, haranguing Zhilin as though he could understand him. The interpreter translated: ‘How much can you pay, then?’

Zhilin though for a moment and then said, ‘Five hundred rubles.’

At this, all the Tatars began talking quickly and at once. Abdul yelled at the red-bearded one, spraying him with spittle. But Kazi-Muhammed merely screwed up his eyes and clicked his tongue.

When they quietened down, the interpreter said, ‘Your master needs more than five hundred rubles. He paid two hundred for you himself. Kazi-Muhamed owed him money, and he took you in paiment of the debt. Three thousand rubles – nothing less will do. And if you don’t write, you’ll be put in a pit and punished with whips.’

‘Hmm,’ thought Zhilin, ‘with this people, if you show you’re afraid it’s all the worse for you.’ He jumped to his feet and said, ‘Well, you tell him, the dog, that if he tries to threaten me I shan’t give him a single copeck, and I shan’t even write. I’m not afraid of you dogs and I never shall be.’

The interpreter relayed what he had said, and again they all started speaking at once. After a long parley, the dark one get up and went over to Zhilin.

‘Russky,’ he said, ‘djigit, djigit Russky!’

Djigit is Tatar for ‘fine fellow’. Laughing, the dark-haired Tatar said something to the interpreter, which was translated as ‘Give me a thousand rubles.’

Zhilin stood his ground: ‘I shan’t give you more than five hundred. And if you kill me, you’ll get nothing at all.’

The Tatars consulted one another and sent the servant somewhere, glancing now at Zhilin, now at the door. The servant returned with someone else – a stout man, barefoot and ragged, and also wearing a shackle.

Zhilin gasped: it was Kostylin. So he had been caught too. He was put beside Zhilin, and the two men began to talk, while the Tatars looked on in silence. Zhilin related what had happened to him, and Kostylin explained that his horse had stopped, his gun had misfired, and the dark-haired Abdul here had taken him captive.

Abdul sprang to his feet and said something, pointing at Kostylin.

The interpreter explained that they both now belonged to one master and that whoever paid the ransom first would be freed first. 'You see', he said to Zhilin, 'you keep flying into a temper, but your comrade is quiet. He wrote a letter home, asking for five thousand rubles to be sent. So he'll be fed well, and won't be ill-treated.'

Zhilin replied, 'That's his business; maybe he's rich, but I'm not. You've heard what I said: kill me if you like-you'll gain nothing from it - but I shan't write for more than five hundred.'

There was a silence. Suddenly, Abdul jumped up and got a little box; he took out a pen, ink and a scrap of paper, thrust them in front of Zhilin and slapped him on the shoulder. 'Write!' he said. He had agreed to the five hundred.

'Hold on a moment,' Zhilin said to the interpreter. 'Tell him to feed us well, to give us proper clothes and boots, and to keep us together - for company ... and to take off our shackles,' he added, looking at his master and laughing.

His master was laughing' too, and said, when Zhilin had finished, 'I'll give them the very best clothes: coats and boots so fine they could get married in them! I'll feed them like princes! And if they want to live togeth¬er, they can live in the shed. But I can't take their shackles off-they'd run away. Only at night-then they can take them off.'

He got up and patted Zhilin's shoulder: 'Me good, you good!'

Zhilin wrote a letter, but he addressed it wrongly so that it should not arrive. 'I'll escape,' he was thinking.

Zhilin and Kostylin were led away to the shed and given straw, a jugful of water, some bread, two old coats and worn-out boots which looked as if they had been taken from killed soldiers. At night their shackles were removed and they were locked up in the shed.

3

And so Zhilin and Kostylin lived for a whole month. Their captor kept laughing-'You, Ivan, good; me, Abdul, good'-but he fed them poorly, on nothing but unleavened millet bread and flat cakes; sometimes the dough wasn't even baked.

Kostylin wrote another letter home and waited impatiently for the money to arrive. For days on end he sat in the shed, counting the days or sleeping. But Zhilin knew his letter would not arrive, and he wrote no other.

'How could my mother possibly get hold of so much money,' he thought. 'As it is, she lived on the money which I sent her. If she were to scrape together five hundred rubles it would ruin her completely. With God's help, I'll get out on my own.'

He spent the time walking around the aul, whistling and keeping his ears and eyes open for a possible escape route. At other times he sat modelling clay dolls or weaving baskets of twigs and rods: Zhilin could turn his hand to anything.

Once he modelled a doll with a nose, arms and legs, wearing a Tatar shirt, and stood it on the roof of the shed.

As the Tatar girls were going to fetch water, Abdul's daughter, Dina, saw the doll and called to the others. They set down their pitchers and gathered round, laughing. Zhilin took down the doll and offered it to them, but they merely giggled and did not dare to take it. So he left the doll and went into the shed to wait and see what would happen.

Dina ran up, glanced round, then picked up the doll and ran away.

The next morning, at dawn, Zhilin saw Dina appear at the door with the doll. She had now dressed it up in scraps of red material and was cradling it in her arms like a child, singing a Tatar lullaby. Then an old woman came out and scolded her, snatched the doll from her, broke it, and sent Dina off to work somewhere.

Zhilin made another doll, an even better one, and gave it to Dina. Some time later, Dina brought a jug for him and sat down, looking at him and laughing, and pointing to the jug.

'Why is she so pleased?' Zhilin wondered. He took the jug and drank from it. He had expected water, but it was milk. When he had finished it he said, 'That was good!'

How thrilled Dina was! 'Good, Ivan,' she said, 'good.' And she jumped up, clapped her hands, snatched the jug from him and scampered off.

From then on she began stealthily to bring him milk every day. Sometimes the Tatars made flat cakes from goat's cheese and dried them on the roofs, and she would secretly bring him some. Once, when her father slaughtered a sheep, she brought him a piece of mutton in her sleeve; she threw it down and scurried away.

One day there was a heavy thunderstorm, and the rain poured for a whole hour. All the streams grew turbid, and at the ford the river overflowed its banks by several feet, tossing the stones about. Rivulets flowed all over the roaring hillside. When the storm passed, the village was awash.

Zhilin asked Abdul for a knife, with which he fashioned a wheel on a spindle, and then he attached two dolls to the wheel. The village girls brought him rags, which he used to dress up the dolls - one as a man, the other as a woman. He placed the wheel in a stream, and as the wheel turned, the dolls danced up and down.

The whole village assembled to look at it-boys, girls and women. Even the menfolk came and clicked their tongues: 'Ay, Russky, ay, Ivan!'

Abdul had a Russian watch which was broken. He called Zhilin and showed him it, clicking his tongue. 'Let's see if I can mend it,' said Zhilin.

He took the watch to pieces with a knife, put it toge¬ther again, and gave it back in working order.

Abdul was delighted, and made him a present of his old beshmet.lt was all in tatters, but Zhilin was glad to have something to cover himself with at nights.

From that time, Zhilin's fame as a master craftsman spread. People began to come in from distant villages to have things repaired by him: sometimes it would be the lock on a rifle or pistol, sometimes a clock. His master brought him tools-tweezers, gimlets and files.

Once, a Tatar fell ill and his people came to Zhilin and asked him to cure him. Zhilin had no idea how to treat sick people, but he went there and had a look, thinking the man's health might improve of its own accord. He went into his shed and mixed some sand and water. In the presence of the Tatars he whispered some words over the water and gave it to the sick man to drink. Luckily for him, the Tatar got better.

Zhilin began to understand their language a little. And some of the Tatars grew accustomed to him, too, and would call his name-'Ivan, Ivan!'-but there were others who still looked at him askance as though he were a wild beast

The red-bearded Tatar did not like Zhilin; he would always frown if he caught sight of him, and turn away or curse him. There was also an old man, who did not live in the aul itself, Zhilin only saw him when he came up the hill to pray in the village mosque. He was of small stature, and wore a white cloth wound round his hat; his clipped beard and moustache were as white as down and his face was lined and as red as a brick; his nose was hooked like a hawk's beak, he had grey, wicked eyes and no teeth apart from a couple of fang-like eye-teeth. He used to walk about in his turban, leaning on his crutch and glowering round him like a wolf. If he saw Zhilin, he would snort and turn away.

One day Zhilin went down the hill to see where the old man lived. From the path he saw a garden with a stone wall; behind the wall there were cherry-trees and peach-trees, and a little flat-roofed cottage. When he got nearer he could see bee-hives made of wattled straw, surrounded by buzzing bees. The old man was down on his knees, pottering with one of the hives. Zhilin climbed a little higher to have a better look, and his shackle clanked. The old man whirled round with a squeal, pulled out a pistol from his belt and took a pot-shot at Zhilin, who only just managed to dodge behind a rock.

The old man went to Zhilin's master to complain. Laughing, Abdul called for Zhilin and asked him why he had gone to the old man's.

'I did him no harm,' he said, 'I just wanted to see how he lived.'

When he was told this, the old man was furious: he hissed and muttered, stuck out his fangs, and shook his fists at Zhilin.

Zhilin didn't understand anything, but he grasped that the old man was telling Abdul to kill the Russians, and not to keep them in the aul. Then the old man went away.

Zhilin asked who he was, and Abdul said, 'He is a great man-he used to be the best djigit! He killed many Russians, and was rich. He had three wives and eight sons. All his sons lived in the same village. The Russians came and ravaged the village and killed seven of his sons. The one who was left alive went over to the Russians' side. So the old man joined the Russians too. He lived three months with them, found his son there, killed him and escaped. From that time he gave up fighting and went to Mecca, to pray to God. That's why he has a turban. He does not like your people - he wants to kill you. But I cannot kill you - I paid money for you; and anyway, I have grown to like you, Ivan. I wouldn't even let you go if I hadn't given my word.' He laughed, and added in Russian: 'You, Ivan, good; me, Abdul, good!'

4

Another month passed in this way. During the day Zhilin wandered about the aul or plied his handicrafts, and when night fell and the aul grew quiet he started digging in his shed. It was hard going because of the stones, but using a file he managed to dig a hole under the wall, just big enough to crawl through. 'Now, if only I can find out exactly in which direction to go,' he thought. 'But none of the Tatars ever speak about it.'

He chose one afternoon when the master was away to go up the hillside beyond the village and have a look at the land from there. But Abdul had ordered his little boy to watch Zhilin in his absence, telling him never to take his eyes off him. The boy ran after Zhilin, crying, 'Don't go! My father forbade it. I'll shout for help!'

Zhilin tried to reason with him: 'I shan't go far-only to the top of that hill. I need herbs to treat your people with. Come along with me. I can't run away with this shackle anyway. And tomorrow I'll make you a bow and arrows.'

He persuaded the boy and they set off. The hill did not look far away, but because of the shackle Zhilin needed all his strength to climb it. At the top he sat down and studied the lie of the land. To the south, in the valley on the other side of the hill, he could see another aul and a herd of horses. Beyond the aul rose another hill, even steeper, and beyond it, yet another. Between the hills lay the bluish mass of a forest, and farther in the distance towered snow-capped mountains, glistening like sugar, each one rising higher than the next. The same mountains ringed the horizon from east and west; here and there a Tatar village smoked in a gorge. Well, that's all their territory, thought Zhilin, and he turned to look north, to the Russian side. Below him were the stream and his aul, surrounded by little gardens. Like tiny dolls, he could see some women washing clothes in the stream. Beyond the village rose a hill, and further off two more hills, covered with trees, and between them he could glimpse a plain in the far distance, a dim blue colour, like smoke. Zhilin tried to recall where the sun had risen and set when he lived in the fortress. He felt certain now: the fortress must be in that valley. He would have to make for the space between those hills.

The sun was setting. The snow-covered mountains flushed crimson and the dark hills turned black; the hollows grew vaporous, and that valley where the Russian fortress surely was, burned in the afterglow as though it were on fire. Zhilin peered into the distance and felt he could see something in the valley - smoke, rising from chimneys - and he fancied it must be his fortress.

It was getting late - Zhilin had heard the mullah calling, and the lowing of cattle being driven home. Abdul's boy kept insisting that they should go back, but Zhilin did not feel like moving.

But return they did, and Zhilin's mind was made up: 'Now that I know the way, I must escape'. He wanted to make an attempt that very night-it was dark, for there was a new moon - but, as ill luck would have it, the Tatars returned that evening in a foul mood. Sometimes they would come home in high spirits, with captured cattle, but this time they brought back one of their men dead-the brother of the red-bearded one. They were angry as they gathered to bury him. Zhilin came out to watch. They wrapped the dead body in a cloth, carried him out of the village and laid him without a coffin on the grass beneath the plane-trees. The mullah came, and the old men in their turbans took off their shoes and squatted down before the dead man, with the other Tatars behind them. They sat in silence with their eyes lowered.

For a long time no one spoke, then the mullah raised his head and said, 'Allah!' Having said this one word, he lowered his head again and another long silence ensued, during which no one moved.

Again the mullah looked up and said, 'Allah!' This time all the others repeated the word, 'Allah!', and fell silent again. The mourners were as motionless as the dead man lying on the grass. Only the leaves in the plane-tree could be heard rustling in the breeze. Then the mullah said a prayer, and they all got up and took the dead man in their arms to carry him to his grave. The grave was not a simple hole in the ground, but was dug out like a cellar. Holding him under the arms and by the legs, they eased him down and placed him in a sitting position under, the ground, with his hands clasped against his stomach.

A Caucasian servant brought some green rushes with which they closed the hole; then they covered it with earth, levelled it out, and erected a standing stone over the dead man's head. They flattened the earth with their feet and then sat down again before the grave. After another lengthy silence they spoke; 'Allah! Allah! Allah!' And heaving a sigh, they stood up.

The red-bearded Tatar distributed money among the old men, then took a lash and chastised himself three times across the forehead before setting off for home.

The next morning Zhilin saw the same men leading a mare out of the village, accompanied by three other Tatars. When they stopped, Kazi-Muhamed took off his beshmet, rolled up his sleeves-his arms were powerful-and began whetting his dagger on a stone. His assistants forced the mare's head back while he slit her throat, and he pushed the animal to the ground and set about skinning it, ripping off its hide with his brawny fists. The women and girls came to wash its guts and inside, then they chopped it into pieces and took it back to Kazi-Muhamed's cottage. And the whole village gathered there for the wake to mourn his dead brother.

For three days they feasted on the mare, drank boza and prayed for the dead man. All the Tatars were there, but on the fourth day Zhilin noticed them setting out somewhere around midday. About ten men rode off, including the red-bearded one. Only Abdul remained.

The nights were still dark, for the moon was only just beginning to wax. Zhilin told Kostylin of his intention to escape that night.

But Kostylin took fright. 'How can we escape? We don't even know the way.'

'I know the way.'

'But we shan't make it in one night.'

'If we don't we'll spend the night in the forest. I've saved some bread. What's the point of sitting here? All very well if they do send your money, but what if they can't get that much together? Besides, the Tatars are angry now, because one of their men was killed by the Russians. There's talk of killing us.'

Kostylin thought and thought, and finally agreed.

5

Zhilin crawled into his tunnel and widened it a lit,tle so that Kostylin could pass through too.

They waited until the village was quiet, then Zhilin crawled under the wall of the shed and emerged on the other side. Urged on by Zhilin, Kostylin crawled into the hole too, but his foot caught on a stone and it made a noise. Abdul had a guard-dog-an extremely savage one-called Ulyashin. Zhilin had taken the precaution of feeding it earlier. When it heard the noise, Ulyashin barked and came running, followed by some other dogs. Zhilin whistled to it quietly and tossed it a piece of bread. Recognising him, Ulyashin wagged its tail and stopped barking.

Abdul shouted to the dog from his hut, but Ulyashin was quiet already, wagging its tail and rubbing itself against Zhilin's leg as he stroked it behind the ears.

They sat behind a corner until all was quiet. Only a sheep could be heard baaing in a pen, and the water gurgling over the pebbles down below. It was dark; stars stood high in the heavens; over the mountains the red new moon was setting, its horns turned upwards. The valleys were full of milky-white fog.

Zhilin got up and said to Kostylin, 'Right, old chap, let's get going.'

Hardly had they moved, when they heard the mullah crying from a rooftop: 'Allah! Besmilla! Ilrahman!' It was the call for the people to go to the mosque. Zhilin and Kostylin hid behind a wall and sat there for a long time, until all the people had passed and it grew quiet again.

'God help us!' They crossed themselves and set off, first down to the stream, then across it and into the valley. The fog was thick down here, but the stars were bright, so that Zhilin could tell which way to go. The fog was fresh and pleasant to walk in, but their battered boots were uncomfortable. Zhilin took his off and threw them away, and then hurried on, leaping from stone to stone and keeping an eye on the stars. Kostylin began to fall behind.

'Slow down a bit,' he said. 'These blasted boots are chafing me.'

'Take them off, then. It'll be easier.'

Kostylin soldiered on barefoot, but that was even worse: he cut his feet on the stones and fell further behind.

'If you skin your feet,' said Zhilin, 'they'll heal again, but if they catch you, you're dead. Which is worse?'

Kostylin struggled on without a word, groaning now and again. For a long time they kept to the low ground. Then they heard dogs barking to the right; Zhilin stopped and looked round, then climbed the hill, feeling the way with his hands.

'Ah,' he said, 'we've wandered too far to the right. That's the other village over there, the one I saw from the top of the hill. We'll have to go back and then up the hillside on the left. There should be woods there.'

But Kostylin complained, 'Wait just a moment and let me rest. My feet are all bleeding.'

'Why, they'll heal, old man. Be a bit lighter on your feet. Look!'

And Zhilin ran off into the wooded hillside, leaving Kostylin behind groaning. Zhilin kept hissing at him and striding out ahead.

They climbed the slope, and sure enough, there were the woods. Ripping their clothes, they fought their way through the brushwood and finally came to a forest path which they could take.

'Wait!' They could hear the sound of hoofs, like a horse coming along the path. Then the noise stopped. When they moved, the noise started again. And when they stopped, it stopped. Zhilin crept nearer and saw some animal standing on the path: it looked rather like a horse, but it had something weird on top of it, not like a man. It gave a snort. 'Amazing!' thought Zhilin. He whistled quietly, and the animal rushed with a crash into the forest, smashing branches like a hurricane.

Kostylin collapsed with fright. But Zhilin laughed, saying, 'It's only a deer. Can't you hear it breaking the branches with its antlers? We're afraid of it, but it's afraid of us!'

They continued on their way. The stars were beginning to sink in the west: dawn was not far off. But whether they were heading in the right direction or not, they did not know. Zhilin had the notion that this was the path along which the Tatars had brought him and that they must be about ten versts from home. But there was no sure sign, and in the dark it was hard to make anything out. They came out into a clearing.

Kostylin sat down and said, 'I won't make it. I'm all in.'

Zhilin tried to urge him on, but he insisted, 'No, I won't make it, I can't.'

Zhilin lost his temper, spat, and cursed him. 'Then I'll go alone. Good-bye!'

Kostylin jumped to his feet and followed him. They covered another four versts or so. The fog settled in the forest even more thickly, and they could see nothing. Even the stars were scarcely visible.

Suddenly they heard a horse galloping, its shoes ringing on the stones. Zhilin lay down and put his ear to the ground.

'Sure enough, a horseman is coming this way.'

They dived into the bushes beside the path to wait. Zhilin crept up to the path and saw that the rider was a Tatar, driving a cow and humming quietly. When he was past, Zhilin went back to Kostylin and said, 'Well, God has spared us. Get up, let's get going.'

Kostylin tried to stand up, but he fell back. 'Oh, I can't, I swear I can't. I've no strength left.'

He was a bulky, corpulent man, and was covered with sweat; and what with the cold fog in the forest, and his torn feet, he was spent. Zhilin tried to lift him bodily, and Kostylin cried out, 'Ow, it hurts!'

Zhilin froze. 'Shut up! The Tatar is close by - he'll hear.' But he was thinking: he really is weak - what can I do with him? One can't desert a comrade.

'Well then,' he said, 'climb onto my back. If you can't walk, I'll carry you.'

He heaved Kostylin into his back, gripped him under the thighs, and carried him up onto the path.

'Only don't throttle me, for Christ's sake,' he said. 'Hold me by the shoulders.'

It was hard going: Zhilin was exhausted and his feet were bleeding too. He was stooping and had to keep jerking Kostylin up, so that he sat higher on his back.

The Tatar must have heard Kostylin's shout. Zhilin could hear someone riding along the path behind them, calling something in Tatar. Zhilin plunged into the bushes. The Tatar seized his gun and fired, but missed, then galloped away with a screech.

'Well,' said Zhilin, 'we've had it now! That dog is about to muster his friends to come after us. If we don't get another couple of miles behind us, we've had it!' At the same time he was thinking of Kostylin: why the hell did I bring this fat oaf with me?-On my own I'd have got away long ago.

Kostylin told him to go on alone: 'Why should you perish because of me?'

'No, I shan't leave you. It wouldn't do to desert a comrade.'

He hauled him onto his back again and struggled on for about a verst, and still no end could be seen to the forest. The fog was beginning to lift, but there seemed to be clouds about, for the stars were no longer visible. Zhilin was worn out.

At length they came to a little stone well by the roadside. Zhilin stopped and set down Kostylin. 'Let me rest and have a drink. We can eat some bread. It can't be far now.'

No sooner had he crouched to drink than he heard the sound of hooves approaching. Again they darted down into the bushes and lay still.

They heard Tatar voices. The Tatars halted at the very place where Zhilin and Kostylin had left the path. They spoke, then seemed to be urging their dogs on. The two Russians heard something crackling through the undergrowth, and then a dog came straight up to them and started barking.

After it came some Tatars whom Zhilin did not know. The Russians were seized, bound, put on horses and carried off.

When they had ridden some three versts they met Abdul with two men from his ml. After a few words with their captor, they took the Russians into their own horses and set forth to their village.

Abdul was no longer laughing and he spoke not a word to them.

They arrived in the aul at daybreak and Zhilin and Kostylin were made to sit on the ground. The village children ran up screaming and began throwing stones and beating them with whips.

The Tatars gathered in a circle and were joined by the old man from down the hill. Zhilin could hear that they were discussing what to do with them. Some were saying they should be sent farther into the mountains, but the old man wanted them killed. Abdul argued, 'I paid money for them; I want the ransom.' But the old man was adamant: 'They won't pay a penny; they'll just cause trouble. It's a sin to feed Russians. Kill them and have done with it.'

The Tatars dispersed and Abdul approached Zhilin. 'If,' he said, 'I don't receive ransom money for you within two weeks, I shall flog you to death. And if you try to escape again, I'll slay you like a dog. Write another letter-and make it a good one!'

They were brought paper and they wrote letters. Shackles were put on them and they were taken away beyond the mosque, where there was a hole in the ground, about twelve feet deep. It was in this pit that they were to be kept.

6

Life became quite insufferable for them now. Their shackles were never removed, and they were not allowed above ground. Like dogs, they had unbaked dough thrown to them, and water was lowered in a pitcher. The pit stank and it was stuffy and damp. Kostylin became quite ill: his body swelled up and ached in every bone, and he was constantly groaning or sleeping. Zhilin, too, was in low spirits: he could see that things were bad but could think of no way out.

He started a tunnel, but there was nowhere to put the earth. The master saw it and threatened to kill him.

Once he was sitting on his haunches at the bottom of the pit, dreaming of freedom, when a flat loaf of bread suddenly dropped into his lap, then another, and then some cherries. He looked up, and there was Dina. She glanced down at him, laughed and ran off.

Zhilin began to wonder whether Dina could not help him.

He cleared a little space in the pit and scraped out some clay to make dolls with. He modelled figures of people, horses and dogs, thinking: when Dina comes I'll throw them up to her.

But the following day Dina did not come. Zhilin heard horses galloping past, and then the Tatars assembled near the mosque, shouting and arguing, and saying something about the Russians. He heard the old man's voice. He could not make out the conversation properly, but he guessed that the Russians were nearby and that the Tatars were afraid lest they should attack the village, and that they did not know what to do with their captives.

Eventually they went away. Suddenly Zhilin heard a rustling sound above him. He looked up and saw Dina, squatting with her knees higher than her head, leaning over the edge with her necklace dangling. Her eyes were sparkling like little stars. She took two cheese cakes out of her sleeve and tossed them to him. Zhilin took them and said, 'Why haven't you been for so long? I've made you toys - catch!' He started throwing them up, one by one, but she did not look at them, and merely shook her head.

'Don't,' she said. She sat for a moment, and then said, 'Ivan! They want to kill you.' And she demonstrated her words by drawing her finger across her neck.

'Who wants to kill me?'

'My father. The old men order him to. I feel sorry for you.'

'Well, if you feel sorry for me,' said Zhilin, 'bring me a long stick.'

She shook her head. He clasped his hands and begged her: 'Dina, please. Dina, my dear girl, please bring one.'

'I can't,' she said. 'They would see - they're all at home.' And she went away.

That evening, Zhilin sat wondering what would become of him. He kept glancing up: the stars were out, but the moon had not yet risen. The mullah called, and the place became quiet. Zhilin was beginning to doze, thinking that Dina would be too afraid to come.

All of a sudden some crumbed clay fell on his head. He looked up-and there was a long pole, sticking over the edge. It poked about a bit and then began to descend. Zhilin was overjoyed. He grabbed the pole and lowered it down. It was a good strong pole - he remembered seeing it on his master's roof.

High in the sky the stars were shining; and just above the pit Dina's eyes, too, were gleaming in the darkness like a cat's. She bent right down to the edge and whispered, 'Ivan, Ivan!' and waved her hand in front of her face, meaning: keep quiet.

'What?' asked Zhilin.

"They're all away; only two are left.'

'Come on, Kostylin, let's go,' said Zhilin. 'We'll make one last effort. I'll help you out.'

But Kostylin would not hear of it. 'No,' he said, 'it looks as if I'm here for good. Where can I go, when I haven't even the strength to turn?'

'In that case, farewell. Don't think badly of me.' The two men kissed each other on the cheeks.

He grasped the pole, told Dina to hold it steady, and tried to climb up. Twice he fell back, hampered by his shackle. With Kostylin's support he somehow managed to clamber up. Dina hauled his shirt with her hands and could not help laughing.

Zhilin pulled up the pole and said, 'Put it back where you got it, Dina, or else they'll miss it and give you a hiding.'

She dragged the pole away and Zhilin set off down the hill. At the foot of the slope he found a sharp stone and tried to wrench open the padlock on his shackle. But the padlock was strong, and it was made even more difficult by the awkward position he had to sit in. Then he heard someone running lightly down the hill and assumed it must be Dina. She ran up, took the stone and said, 'Let me try.'

She knelt down and tried to prize the lock open, but her hands were as slender as little twigs and did not have the strength for it. She threw away the stone and burst into tears. Zhilin set to work again on the padlock, and Dina squatted beside him with her hand on his shoulder. Zhilin looked round: there was a red glow behind the hill over to the left-the moon was rising. 'I must cover the low land and reach the forest before the moon is up,' he thought. He stood up and flung away the stone. Shackle or no shackle, he would have to go.

'Farewell, Dina,' he said, 'I shall always remember you.'

Dina grasped at him and searched him with her hands for somewhere to put her breads. He took them from her. 'Thank you,' he said, 'clever girl. Who will make you dolls when I'm gone?' And he stroked her head.

Dina started crying again, covered her face with her hands, and scurried off up (he hill, leaping like a young goat. Only the coins in her hair could be heard jingling in the dark.

Zhilin crossed himself, held the padlock high so that it would not clank, and set out along the road, dragging his foot and keeping an eye on the red glow in the sky where the moon was coming up. He recognized the road: he had to keep straight ahead for about eight versts. If only he could reach the forest before the moon gained hight. He crossed the stream; the glow behind the mountain had now turned white. As he traversed the low area, the moon itself was still not to be seen. At one end of the valley it was growing lighter and lighter, with the edge of the shadow creeping further and further down the slope towards him.

Zhilin walked on, keeping to the shadow. He moved as fast as he could, but the moon was climbing even faster; now the peaks over on the right were illuminated too. He still had not reached the forest when the moon emerged from behind the mountains and it became as bright as day. All the leaves on the trees were visible. There was a deathly stillness and pallor over the mountains. All that could be heard was the rippling of the brook down below.

At last he gained the forest; no one had seen him. Zhilin found a dark spot and sat down to rest. He ate of the flat loaves, and then took a stone and tried to break open his shackle again. He bruised his hands, but the shackle remained intact, so he got up and continued on his way. After another verst he was footsore and flagging. Every few yards he had to stop. There's no thing for it - he thought - I'll have to drag myself along until my strength runs out. If I sit down I'll never get up again. I shan't reach the fortress tonight; when it gets light I'll lie low in the forest, and set off again when it is dark.

All night Zhilin walked. The only incident was when two Tatars rode by, but Zhilin heard them a long way off and had time to hide behind a tree.

The moon began to pale and the dew fell as the dawn approached. Zhilin still had not reached the end of the forest. Well-he thought-another thirty steps, and then I shall go into the trees and lie down. But thirty steps later the forest came to an end. Standing at the edge, he saw the steppe stretched out before him, as clear as day; he could see the fortress, and, at the foot of the hill on the left, smouldering fires with people round them. He strained his eyes and saw guns glinting: they were Russian soldiers and Cossacks!

Zhilin was overcome with joy. He summoned his last ounce of strength and started down the hill, praying that no Tatar horseman would see him here, in the open field: I may be close, but I wouldn't get away.

No sooner had this thought flitted through his mind than he beheld three mounted Tatars on a hillock only a few hundred yards away. They had seen him, and were racing towards him. Zhilin's heart plummeted. He waved his hands and shouted for all he was worth: 'Lads! Help me, men!'

The Cossacks heard him and jumped to their horses. They came galloping towards him, hoping to intercept the Tatars.

The Cossacks were a long way off; the Tatars were close. Mustering all his strength, Zhilin lifted his shackle and lashed towards the Cossacks, crossing him¬self and yelling, 'Help me, chaps, help me!'

The Cossacks numbered about fifteen: the Tatars took fright and began to pull up before they reached Zhilin.

Zhilin staggered up to the Cossacks. The soldiers surrounded him, asking who he was and where he had come from.

But Zhilin was beside himself, weeping and blabbering, 'Lads! Lads!'

Some footsoldiers came running up and gathered round. Some offered him bread, others kasha, still others vodka. Someone put a greatcoat round his shoulders, while another set about smashing his shackle.

The officers recognized him and took him into the fortress. The soldiers were delighted, and Zhilin's old comrades all crowded round.

Zhilin related everything that had happened to him, and added, 'So much for going home and getting married! No, it's obviously not my destiny!'

And he remained in service in the Caucasus.

Kostylin's five-thousand-ruble ransom wasn't paid for another month, and he was brought home barely alive.

1872