y a shot rang out... We glanced at each other, both struck
with the selfsame suspicion... We galloped headlong in the direction of
the shot, looked, and saw the soldiers clustered together on the rampart
and pointing towards a field, along which a rider was flying at full
speed, holding something white across his saddle. Grigori Aleksandrovich
yelled like any Chechene, whipped his gun from its cover, and gave
chase--I after him.

"Luckily, thanks to our unsuccessful hunt, our horses were not jaded;
they strained under the saddle, and with every moment we drew nearer and
nearer... At length I recognised Kazbich, only I could not make out what
it was that he was holding in front of him.

"Then I drew level with Pechorin and shouted to him:

"'It is Kazbich!'

"He looked at me, nodded, and struck his horse with his whip.

"At last we were within gunshot of Kazbich. Whether it was that his
horse was jaded or not so good as ours, I don't know, but, in spite of
all his efforts, it did not get along very fast. I fancy at that moment
he remembered his Karagyoz!

"I looked at Pechorin. He was taking aim as he galloped...

"'Don't shoot,' I cried. 'Save the shot! We will catch up with him as it
is.'

"Oh, these young men! Always taking fire at the wrong moment! The shot
rang out and the bullet broke one of the horse's hind legs. It gave a
few fiery leaps forward, stumbled, and fell to its knees. Kazbich sprang
off, and then we perceived that it was a woman he was holding in his
arms--a woman wrapped in a veil. It was Bela--poor Bela! He shouted
something to us in his own language and raised his dagger over her...
Delay was useless; I fired in my turn, at haphazard. Probably the bullet
struck him in the shoulder, because he dropped his hand suddenly. When
the smoke cleared off, we could see the wounded horse lying on the
ground and Bela beside it; but Kazbich, his gun flung away, was
clambering like a cat up the cliff, through the brushwood. I should have
liked to have brought him down from there--but I hadn't a charge ready.
We jumped off our horses and rushed to Bela. Poor girl! She was lying
motionless, and the blood was pouring in streams from her wound. The
villain! If he had struck her to the heart--well and good, everything
would at least have been finished there and then; but to stab her in
the back like that--the scoundrel! She was unconscious. We tore the
veil into strips and bound up the wound as tightly as we