“Now then; with God’s help we must get away,” Jilin said.
They crossed themselves and started. They went through the yard and downhill to the river which they forded and came out into the valley. The mist hung low and dense; above, the stars were visible. By the stars Jilin could tell the direction they had to take. It was cool in the mist and walking was easy, only their boots were uncomfortable, being old and worn out. Jilin cast his off and went bare-foot. He leapt over the stones, gazing up at the stars. Kostilin began to lag behind.
“Slower, please,” he said, “these cursed boots hurt my feet.”
“Take them off and you’ll find it easier.”
Kostilin too went barefoot, but that was still worse. The stones cut his feet and he lagged behind more than ever.
Jilin said to him, “The cuts on your feet will heal up soon enough, but if the Tartars catch us it will be much more serious; they will kill us.”
Kostilin did not say anything, but walked along, groaning.
They walked along the valley for a long time, when suddenly they heard the barking of dogs. Jilin stopped and looked about him. He climbed up the hill on all fours.
“We mistook our way, and turned to the right. Another Tartar village lies here; I saw it from the hill the other day. We must turn back and go to the left up the hill. There must be a wood here.”
And Kostilin said, “Let us rest a while; my feet are all bleeding.”