“Go, be quick!” whispered Maryánka.
“Lukáshka called round,” she answered; “he was asking for Daddy.”
“Well then send him here!”
“He’s gone; said he was in a hurry.”
In fact, Lukáshka, stooping, as with big strides he passed under the windows, ran out through the yard and towards Yámka’s house unseen by anyone but Olénin. After drinking two bowls of chikhir he and Nazárka rode away to the outpost. The night was warm, dark, and calm. They rode in silence, only the footfall of their horses was heard. Lukáshka started a song about the Cossack, Mingál, but stopped before he had finished the first verse, and after a pause, turning to Nazárka, said:
“I say, she wouldn’t let me in!”
“Oh?” rejoined Nazárka. “I knew she wouldn’t. D’you know what Yámka told me? The cadet has begun going to their house. Daddy Eróshka brags that he got a gun from the cadet for getting him Maryánka.”
“He lies, the old devil!” said Lukáshka, angrily. “She’s not such a girl. If he does not look out I’ll wallop that old devil’s sides,” and he began his favourite song:
“From the village of Izmáylov,
From the master’s favourite garden,
Once escaped a keen-eyed falcon.
Soon after him a huntsman came a-riding,
And he beckoned to the falcon that had strayed,
But the bright-eyed bird thus answered:
‘In gold cage you could not keep me,
On your hand you could not hold me,
So now I fly to blue seas far away.
There a white swan I will kill,
Of sweet swan-flesh have my fill.’”