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groups; he could see the red uniforms of his men, who were lying around the well, and the sheepskin coats under which the Cossacks were sleeping near the cottage.

Then suddenly some figure rose from the rank of the sleepers and began to pass with slow step through the yard, halting here and there near men and horses, speaking for a moment with the Cossacks who were guarding the prisoners, and at last approached the stable. Zagloba supposed at first that it was Bogun, for he saw that the guards spoke to that figure as subordinates to a superior.

“Eh!” he muttered, “if I had a musket now, I would show you how to cover yourself with your feet.”

At this moment the figure raised its head, and on its face fell the gray light of the morning. It was not Bogun, but the sotnik Golody, whom Zagloba recognized at once, for he knew Golody well from the time of his own intimacy with Bogun in Chigirin.

“Well, boys, you are not asleep?” said Golody.

“No, father, though we should like to sleep. It is about time to change guard.”

“It will be changed immediately. And that devil’s imp has not got away?”

“No, no!⁠—unless the soul has gone out of him, father, for he hasn’t moved.”

“Ah! he is an old fox. But look, see what he is doing, for he would go through the ground.”

“This minute!” answered a number of Cossacks, going to the door of the stable.

“Throw out hay from the mow! Rub the horses! We will start at sunrise.”

“All right, father!”

Zagloba, leaving at once his lookout in the opening of the thatch, crawled to the hole in the floor. At the same moment he heard the creak of the wooden hinges and the rustling of the straw under the feet of the Cossacks. His heart beat like a hammer in his breast, and he pressed the hilt of the sabre in his hand, renewing in his soul the oath that he would resign himself to be burned with the stable or be cut to pieces rather than be taken alive. He expected every moment that the Cossacks would raise a fearful uproar, but he was deceived. For a time he heard them walking more and more quickly through the whole stable. At last one said⁠—

“What the devil is the matter? I can’t find him. We threw him in here.”

“He isn’t a werewolf, is he? Strike a light, Vassily; it is as dark here as in a forest.”

A moment of silence followed. Evidently Vassily was looking for flint and tinder, while the other Cossacks began to call in a low voice: “Where are you?”

“Kiss the dog’s ear!” muttered Zagloba.

Steel struck flint, a cluster of sparks flashed forth and lighted the dark interior of the stable and the heads of the Cossacks in their caps, then deeper darkness came down again.

“He is not here! he is not here!” cried excited voices.

That moment one sprang to the door. “Father Golody! Father Golody!”

“What’s the matter?” cried the sotnik, approaching the door.

“There is no Pole.”

“How, no Pole?”

“He has gone into the ground; he isn’t anywhere. O God, have mercy on us! We struck fire; he is not here.”

“Impossible! Oh, you will catch it from the ataman! Has he escaped, or how is it? You have been asleep.”

“No, father, we have not slept. He didn’t get out of the stable on our side.”

“Be quiet! don’t wake the ataman. If he hasn’t gone out, then he must be here. Have you looked everywhere?”

“Everywhere.”

“On the loft too?”

“How could he crawl on the loft when he was bound?”

“You fool! If he hadn’t unbound himself, he would be here. Look on the loft! Strike a light!”

Sparks flashed again. The news flew in a moment among all the guards. They began to crowd to the stable with the haste usual on sudden occasions; hurried steps were heard, hurried questions and still more hurried answers. Advices crossed one another like swords in battle.

“To the loft! to the loft!”

“But watch outside!”

“Don’t wake the ataman; if you do, there will be terror.”

“The ladder is gone!”

“Bring another!”

“There is none anywhere.”

“Run to the cottage; see if there is one there.”

“Oh, curse the Pole!”

“Go up the corners to the thatch; get in through the thatch.”

“Impossible; for the roof projects and is fastened with planks.”

“Bring the lances; we will go up on the lances. Ah, the dog! he has hauled up the ladder.”

“Bring the lances!” roared Golody.

Some ran for the lances, while others stretched their heads up toward the loft. Already scattered light penetrated through the open door into the stable; and with its uncertain gleam was to be seen the square opening in the loft, black and silent. From below were heard single voices.

“Now, sir noble, let down the ladder and come. You won’t get away, anyhow; why put people to trouble? Come down, oh, come down!”

Silence.

“You are a wise man. If it would do you any good, you might stay up there; but since it won’t help you, come down of your own accord, be a good fellow.”

Silence.

“Come down! If you don’t, we will skin your head and throw you headfirst into the dung-heap.”

Zagloba was as deaf to threats as to coaxing, sitting in the dark like a badger in his hole, preparing for a stubborn defence. He only grasped his sabre tighter, panted a little, and whispered his prayers.

Lances were now brought, three of them tied together, and placed with their points to the opening. The thought flashed through Zagloba’s mind to grasp and draw them up; but he thought that the roof might be too low, and he couldn’t draw them up entirely. Besides, others would be brought at once. Meanwhile the stable became crowded with Cossacks. Some held torches, others brought from wagons all kinds of ladders and poles, every one of which turned out to be too short; these they lashed together hurriedly with straps, for it was really difficult to climb on the lances. Still they found volunteers.

“I’ll go,” called a

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