The officer rose and approached him. "In the hands of those who saved you."
"It was not you, then, who caught me with a lariat?"
"No; the sabre is our weapon, not the lariat. You wrong our good soldiers with the suspicion. You were seized by ruffians, pretended Tartars. You can look at them if you are curious, for they are lying out there slaughtered like sheep."
Saying this, he pointed with his hand to a number of dark bodies lying below the height.
To this the stranger answered, "If you will permit me to rest."
They brought him a felt-covered saddle, on which he seated himself in silence.
He was in the prime of life, of medium height, with broad shoulders, almost gigantic build of body, and striking features. He had an enormous head, a complexion dried and sunburnt, black eyes, somewhat aslant, like those of a Tartar; over his thin lips hung a mustache ending at the tips in two broad bunches. His powerful face indicated courage and pride. There was in it something at once attractive and repulsive,--the dignity of a hetman with Tartar cunning, kindness, and ferocity.
After he had sat awhile on the saddle he rose, and beyond all expectation, went to look at the bodies instead of returning thanks.
"How churlish!" muttered the lieutenant.
The stranger examined each face carefully, nodding his head like a man who has seen through everything; then he turned slowly to the lieutenant, slapping himself on the side, and seeking involuntarily his belt, behind which he wished evidently to pass his hand.