The moon was beginning to pale, and Zhilín had not yet reached the edge of the forest.
"Well," he thought, "I will take another thirty steps, after which I will turn into the forest, where I will sit down."
He took the thirty steps, and there he saw that the forest came to an end. He went to the edge of it, and there it was quite light. Before him lay the steppe and the fortress, as in the palm of the hand, and to the left, close by at the foot of the mountain, fires were burning and going out, and the smoke was spreading, and men were near the camp-fires.
He took a sharp look at them: the guns were glistening,—those were Cossacks and soldiers.
Zhilín was happy. He collected his last strength and walked down-hill. And he thought: "God forfend that a Tartar rider should see me in the open! Though it is not far off, I should not get away."
No sooner had he thought so, when, behold, on a mound stood three Tartars, not more than 150 fathoms away. They saw him, and darted toward him. His heart just sank in him. He waved his arms and shouted as loud as he could:
"Brothers! Help, brothers!"
Our men heard him, and away flew the mounted Cossacks. They started toward him, to cut off the Tartars.
The Cossacks had far to go, but the Tartars were near. And Zhilín collected his last strength, took the stocks in his hand, and ran toward the Cossacks. He was beside himself, and he made the sign of the cross, and shouted:
"Brothers! Brothers! Brothers!"