rhythmically at every second beat. Just above the Cossack's head
it turned towards the wood and then, striking its wings no longer
after every other flap but at every flap, it flew to an old plane
tree where it rustled about for a long time before settling down
among the branches. At every one of these unexpected sounds the
watching Cossack listened intently, straining his hearing, and
screwing up his eyes while he deliberately felt for his musket.

The greater part of the night was past. The black cloud that had
moved westward revealed the clear starry sky from under its torn
edge, and the golden upturned crescent of the moon shone above the
mountains with a reddish light. The cold began to be penetrating.
Nazarka awoke, spoke a little, and fell asleep again. Lukashka
feeling bored got up, drew the knife from his dagger-handle and
began to fashion his stick into a ramrod. His head was full of the
Chechens who lived over there in the mountains, and of how their
brave lads came across and were not afraid of the Cossacks, and
might even now be crossing the river at some other spot. He thrust
himself out of his hiding-place and looked along the river but
could see nothing. And as he continued looking out at intervals
upon the river and at the opposite bank, now dimly distinguishable
from the water in the faint moonlight, he no longer thought about
the Chechens but only of when it would be time to wake his
comrades, and of going home to the village. In the village he
imagined Dunayka, his 'little soul', as the Cossacks call a man's
mistress, and thought of her with vexation. Silvery mists, a sign
of coming morning, glittered white above the water, and not far
from him young eagles were whistling and flapping their wings. At
last the crowing of a cock reached him from the distant village,
followed by the long-sustained note of another, which was again