t and pushed off from the bank with his
powerful leg, and now, as Olenin noticed, for the first time threw a
rapid glance at all the Cossacks and then abruptly asked his companion
a question. The latter answered something and pointed to Lukashka. The
Chechen looked at him and, turning slowly away, gazed at the opposite
bank. That look expressed not hatred but cold contempt. He again made
some remark.

'What is he saying?' Olenin asked of the fidgety scout.

'Yours kill ours, ours slay yours. It's always the same,' replied the
scout, evidently inventing, and he smiled, showing his white teeth, as
he jumped into the skiff.

The dead man's brother sat motionless, gazing at the opposite bank. He
was so full of hatred and contempt that there was nothing on this side
of the river that moved his curiosity. The scout, standing up at one
end of the skiff and dipping his paddle now on one side now on the
other, steered skilfully while talking incessantly. The skiff became
smaller and smaller as it moved obliquely across the stream, the voices
became scarcely audible, and at last, still within sight, they landed
on the opposite bank where their horses stood waiting. There they
lifted out the corpse and (though the horse shied) laid it across one
of the saddles, mounted, and rode at a foot-pace along the road past a
Tartar village from which a crowd came out to look at them. The
Cossacks on the Russian side of the river were highly satisfied and
jovial. Laughter and jokes were heard on all sides. The captain and the
head of the village entered the mud hut to regale themselves. Lukashka,
vainly striving to impart a sedate expression to his merry face, sat
down with his elbows on his knees beside Olenin and whittled away at a
stick.

'Why do you smoke?' he said with assumed curiosity. 'Is it good?'

He evidently spoke because he noticed Olenin felt ill at ease and
isolated among the Cossacks.

'It's just a habit,' answered Olenin. 'Why?'

'H'm, if one of us were to smoke there would be a row! Look there now,
the mountains are not far off,' continued Lukashka, 'yet you can't get
there! How will you get back alone? It's getting dark. I'll take you,
if you like. You ask the corporal to give me leave.'

'What a fine fellow!' thought Olenin, looking at the Cossack's bright
face. He remembered Maryanka and the kiss he had heard by the gate, and
he was sorry for Lukashka and his want of culture. 'What confusion it
is,' he thought.