hovered around her children with anxiety, passion, tears, like the
gull of the steppes. They were taking her sons, her darling sons, from
her--taking them from her, so that she should never see them again!
Who knew? Perhaps a Tatar would cut off their heads in the very first
skirmish, and she would never know where their deserted bodies might
lie, torn by birds of prey; and yet for each single drop of their
blood she would have given all hers. Sobbing, she gazed into their
eyes, and thought, "Perhaps Bulba, when he wakes, will put off their
departure for a day or two; perhaps it occurred to him to go so soon
because he had been drinking."

The moon from the summit of the heavens had long since lit up the
whole courtyard filled with sleepers, the thick clump of willows, and
the tall steppe-grass, which hid the palisade surrounding the court.
She still sat at her sons' pillow, never removing her eyes from them
for a moment, nor thinking of sleep. Already the horses, divining the
approach of dawn, had ceased eating and lain down upon the grass; the
topmost leaves of the willows began to rustle softly, and little by
little the rippling rustle descended to their bases. She sat there
until daylight, unwearied, and wishing in her heart that the night
might prolong itself indefinitely. From the steppes came the ringing
neigh of the horses, and red streaks shone brightly in the sky. Bulba
suddenly awoke, and sprang to his feet. He remembered quite well what
he had ordered the night before. "Now, my men, you've slept enough!
'tis time, 'tis time! Water the horses! And where is the old woman?"
He generally called his wife so. "Be quick, old woman, get us
something to eat; the way is long."

The poor old woman, deprived of her last hope, slipped sadly into the
hut.