The Cossacks descended the cliff path at full speed, but their pursuers were at their heels.They looked: the path wound and twisted, and made many detours to one side."Comrades, we are trapped!" said they.All halted for an instant, raised their whips, whistled, and their Tatar horses rose from the ground, clove the air like serpents, flew over the precipice, and plunged straight into the Dniester.Two only did not alight in the river, but thundered down from the height upon the stones, and perished there with their horses without uttering a cry.But the Cossacks had already swum shoreward from their horses, and unfastened the boats, when the Lyakhs halted on the brink of the precipice, astounded by this wonderful feat, and thinking, "Shall we jump down to them, or not?"One young colonel, a lively, hot-blooded soldier, own brother to the beautiful Pole who had seduced poor Andrii, did not reflect long, but leaped with his horse after the Cossacks.He made three turns in the air with his steed, and fell heavily on the rocks.The sharp stones tore him in pieces; and his brains, mingled with blood, bespattered the shrubs growing on the uneven walls of the precipice.
When Taras Bulba recovered from the blow, and glanced towards the Dniester, the Cossacks were already in the skiffs and rowing away.
Balls were showered upon them from above but did not reach them.And the old hetman's eyes sparkled with joy.
"Farewell, comrades!" he shouted to them from above; "remember me, and come hither again next spring and make merry in the same fashion!
What! cursed Lyakhs, have ye caught me? Think ye there is anything in the world that a Cossack fears? Wait; the time will come when ye shall learn what the orthodox Russian faith is! Already the people scent it far and near.A czar shall arise from Russian soil, and there shall not be a power in the world which shall not submit to him!" But fire had already risen from the fagots; it lapped his feet, and the flame spread to the tree....But can any fire, flames, or power be found on earth which are capable of overpowering Russian strength?
Broad is the river Dniester, and in it are many deep pools, dense reed-beds, clear shallows and little bays; its watery mirror gleams, filled with the melodious plaint of the swan, the proud wild goose glides swiftly over it; and snipe, red-throated ruffs, and other birds are to be found among the reeds and along the banks.The Cossacks rowed swiftly on in the narrow double-ruddered boats--rowed stoutly, carefully shunning the sand bars, and cleaving the ranks of the birds, which took wing--rowed, and talked of their hetman.
ST.JOHN'S EVE
A STORY TOLD BY THE SACRISTAN OF THE DIKANKA CHURCHThoma Grigroovitch had one very strange eccentricity: to the day of his death he never liked to tell the same thing twice.There were times when, if you asked him to relate a thing afresh, he would interpolate new matter, or alter it so that it was impossible to recognise it.Once upon a time, one of those gentlemen who, like the usurers at our yearly fairs, clutch and beg and steal every sort of frippery, and issue mean little volumes, no thicker than an A B Cbook, every month, or even every week, wormed this same story out of Thoma Grigorovitch, and the latter completely forgot about it.But that same young gentleman, in the pea-green caftan, came from Poltava, bringing with him a little book, and, opening it in the middle, showed it to us.Thoma Grigorovitch was on the point of setting his spectacles astride of his nose, but recollected that he had forgotten to wind thread about them and stick them together with wax, so he passed it over to me.As I understand nothing about reading and writing, and do not wear spectacles, I undertook to read it.I had not turned two leaves when all at once he caught me by the hand and stopped me.
"Stop! tell me first what you are reading."
I confess that I was a trifle stunned by such a question.
"What! what am I reading, Thoma Grigorovitch? Why, your own words.""Who told you that they were my words?"
"Why, what more would you have? Here it is printed: 'Related by such and such a sacristan.'""Spit on the head of the man who printed that! he lies, the dog of a Moscow pedlar! Did I say that? ''Twas just the same as though one hadn't his wits about him!' Listen.I'll tell the tale to you on the spot."We moved up to the table, and he began.
*My grandfather (the kingdom of heaven be his! may he eat only wheaten rolls and poppy-seed cakes with honey in the other world!) could tell a story wonderfully well.When he used to begin a tale you could not stir from the spot all day, but kept on listening.He was not like the story-teller of the present day, when he begins to lie, with a tongue as though he had had nothing to eat for three days, so that you snatch your cap and flee from the house.I remember my old mother was alive then, and in the long winter evenings when the frost was crackling out of doors, and had sealed up hermetically the narrow panes of our cottage, she used to sit at her wheel, drawing out a long thread in her hand, rocking the cradle with her foot, and humming a song, which I seem to hear even now.
