Just then they heard a sharp shot some thirty paces off. The corporal smiled slightly.
“Our Gúrka is having shots at them,” he said, nodding in the direction of the shot.
Having gone a few paces farther they saw Gúrka sitting behind a sand-hillock and loading his gun. To while away the time he was exchanging shots with the abreks, who were behind another sand-heap. A bullet came whistling from their side.
The cornet was pale and grew confused. Lukáshka dismounted from his horse, threw the reins to one of the other Cossacks, and went up to Gúrka. Olénin also dismounted and, bending down, followed Lukáshka. They had hardly reached Gúrka when two bullets whistled above them.
Lukáshka looked around laughing at Olénin and stooped a little.
“Look out or they will kill you, Dmítri Andréich,” he said. “You’d better go away—you have no business here.” But Olénin wanted absolutely to see the abreks.
From behind the mound he saw caps and muskets some two hundred paces off. Suddenly a little cloud of smoke appeared from thence, and again a bullet whistled past. The abreks were hiding in a marsh at the foot of the hill. Olénin was much impressed by the place in which they sat. In reality it was very much like the rest of the steppe, but because the abreks sat there it seemed to detach itself from all the rest and to have become distinguished. Indeed it appeared to Olénin that it was the very spot for abreks to occupy. Lukáshka went back to his horse and Olénin followed him.
“We must get a hay-cart,” said Lukáshka, “or they will be killing some of us. There behind that mound is a Nogáy cart with a load of hay.”
The cornet listened to him and the corporal agreed. The cart of hay was fetched, and the Cossacks, hiding behind it, pushed it forward. Olénin rode up a hillock from whence he could see everything. The hay-cart moved on and the Cossacks crowded together behind it. The Cossacks advanced, but the Chéchens, of whom there were nine, sat with their knees in a row and did not fire.
All was quiet. Suddenly from the Chéchens arose the sound of a mournful song, something like Daddy Eróshka’s “Ay day, dalalay.” The Chéchens knew that they could not escape, and to prevent themselves from being tempted to take to flight they had strapped themselves together, knee to knee, had got their guns ready, and were singing their death-song.