He helped Kostilin up, put his arms under his thighs and carried him on to the path.
“For heaven’s sake don’t put your arms round my neck or you’ll throttle me. Hold on to my shoulders.”
It was hard work for Jilin; his feet, too, were bleeding and tired. He bent down now and then to get him in a more comfortable position, or jerked him up so that he sat higher up, and went on his weary way.
The Tartar had evidently heard Kostilin’s cry. Jilin heard some one following behind, calling out in the Tartar tongue. Jilin rushed into the thicket. The Tartar seized his gun and aimed; the shot missed; the Tartar yelled and galloped down the path.
“I’m afraid we’re lost,” Jilin said. “He’ll collect the Tartars to hunt us down. If we don’t cover a couple of miles before they’ve time to set out, nothing will save us.” To himself he thought, “Why the devil did I saddle myself with this block? I should have got there long ago had I been alone.”
Kostilin said, “Why should you be caught because of me?”
“I can’t go alone; it would be mean to desert a comrade.”
Again he raised Kostilin on to his shoulders and went on. They walked along for another half-mile. They were still in the wood and could not see the end of it. The mist had dispersed; the clouds seemed to gather; the stars were no longer visible. Jilin was worn out. They came to a spring walled in by stones. He stopped and put Kostilin down.
“Let us rest a minute or two and have a drink and a bite of this cake. We can’t be very far off now.”
He had no sooner lain down to take a drink from the spring than he heard the stamping of horses behind him. Again they rushed into the thicket to the right and lay down on a slope.