After much difficulty, he found bondsmen, and pledged his land. Now he need only secure the money, and then set off to bargain for the horse. Even in the worst case, it could not be “dearer than gold.”[3] His present owner in Wiborg had many horses, and would surely be willing to give up Jalo for a satisfactory price. The day of his departure was already fixed when one beautiful morning in July, just as Christian was in the act of removing a few stubbly gray hairs from his chin, he heard a familiar neigh. There was no mistake; it must be Jalo, that was just the way he always called his master when he went into his stable late in the morning. Christian threw down the razor and rushed out. There behind the corner of his own stable, to which Jegor’s pasture extended, stood Jalo with dilated nostrils, tossing his head up and down. In a second he flew over the fence, and stood upon the ground of his former owner. Christian felt as though he was paralyzed in every limb. He could only utter a gasp of astonishment. A joyful smile flitted over his face like sunshine over the moorland, while all the tales of witchcraft he had overheard flashed through his excited brain. While he still stood there, rubbing his eyes, to convince himself that he was not dreaming, Jegor, his enemy, entered the yard, bridle and whip in hand. “The horse belongs to me,” he said; “beware of luring him here.”
Jegor seized Jalo by the lock of hair on his forehead, put on the bridle, and, swearing violently, protested that he would cure him of leaping the fence. Poor Jalo was roughly dragged away to his own barn, and after a time Christian heard the horse snorting and stamping under the blows of Jegor’s whip. To beat Jalo, to abuse such an animal—who ever heard of such a thing?
From that day Christian’s life was a hell. To be compelled to do without the horse was torture enough, but to know that it was in the hands of his worst enemy, that he could never own it again, to see it daily without being able to go near it, was far worse. Everything that Jegor could think of to do to the horse in Christian’s presence to torment him he conscientiously did. Every blow he had himself received he returned to Jalo. And when, as sometimes happened, the horse came dashing at a gallop to his old master, as if seeking protection, Christian could be certain that thick wales on Jalo’s sides would show how Jegor Timofitsch rewarded faithful friendship.
Several weeks passed in this way. It was a hot August day when the baked clods of earth cracked with the heat, and the air quivered and shimmered under the burning sunshine. Even the village dogs had stopped barking and fled to the shade under steps and outbuildings. The cows stood knee-deep in the water beneath the shelter of the dark alders. Only the gnats enjoyed the fierce heat of the sun; the dragon-flies flew through the air in shimmering circles. Christian lay stretched on the wooden bench in his house watching Jalo with burning eyes as he stood opposite to him in Jegor’s meadow in the shade of a gnarled old elm. Christian was dreaming of the happy days when Jalo still belonged to him. How insignificant appeared the troubles of those times, and how great their joys. He was just falling into a light slumber when he was roused by three huntsmen from Wiborg inquiring eagerly for the landlord. They had been in pursuit of hares when they unexpectedly encountered a lynx engaged in the same chase. For two days they had followed the trail of the wild beast, which became greatly exhausted, when unluckily their dog hurt its paw and had to be left behind. The hunters now asked where they could borrow one to continue the chase. Christian owned such a dog. His Sipi could be used to track sea-fowl, hares, and bears. The gentlemen, accompanied by Christian and Sipi, hurried back to the moor where they had last seen the trail of the lynx. Within fifteen minutes Sipi found it and, amid joyous barking and waving of his bushy tail, ran toward the woods. Soon furious baying announced that the lynx was either caught or had climbed a tree. When the hunters reached the spot, Sipi was executing a wild war-dance around a pine tree, of whose boughs lay the wild beast, gnashing its teeth at its enemy. With ears laid back smoothly against its head, and eyes glittering with rage, it seemed on the point of leaping down on its shaggy foe. But before determining to commence the fray, it fell under the bullet of the first of the approaching hunters. Its paws were bound together, a pole thrust through them, and it was carried in triumph back to Christian’s farm. There the weary men ate a country luncheon, and celebrated their luck thoroughly by consuming plenty of brandy and rum. The heating drinks went to their heads, and by twilight Christian and his guests had become very excited and garrulous.
“Listen to me, Christian,” said his wife, who was made somewhat anxious by the noisy company, “I won’t have any loaded guns in the house: go and fire the bullets out of those barrels.”
Christian rose slowly, remarking that women were always great cowards; took the guns from the bench, and went out. Daylight was failing, but darkness had not yet closed in; the perfume of new-mown clover drifted in on the breeze. From the distance echoed the notes of the cowherds’ horns, and the crickets were chirping loudly in the courtyard.
Christian staggered down the steps. Suddenly he stopped. There by the corner of the stable again stood the dream of his nights and the longings of his days. Jalo raised his delicately formed head, shook his floating mane, and uttered a low, mysterious neigh, as if calling his former master.
Christian went to him and patted his neck. The animal put his velvety muzzle over the low fence into Christian’s pocket. The latter, deeply moved, threw his arm over the horse’s neck. It was so long since he had caressed Jalo, stroked his soft skin, and spoken to him. While thus passing his hand along the beautiful creature’s back, he suddenly felt the wales of Jegor’s lashes. The blood surged hotly in his veins. “Miserable brute,” he muttered, shaking his fist savagely at Jegor’s house. “My poor friend, I’ll free you forever from his whip, his cruelty, and tyranny.” Almost before he himself was aware what he was doing, he had snatched the gun from his shoulder—one shot, and the noble creature fell moaning; one sorrowful glance from the glazing eyes, and Jalo lay lifeless behind the fence which separated him from his former owner. Christian fled into the forest like a murderer. Half an hour later he returned to his home perfectly sober. The hunters had gone to look for their dog. He was alone with his wife. Deeply agitated, he told her what he had done.
“Well, what do you mean to do?” asked Christian’s wife when her husband returned late in the evening from Laurikamen’s. “There are no witnesses.”
“No, there are no witnesses; but whatever they may do to me, I will tell them at any rate the whole story of Jalo.”