The dark one understood, laughed, looked out the door, called someone:
“Dina!”
A girl came running, slight, thin, about thirteen years old, and her face resembling the dark one’s. It was clear she was his daughter. Her eyes were also black, bright, and her face was pretty. She was dressed in a long, dark blue shirt with wide sleeves and no belt. The hem, the bodice, and the sleeves were trimmed with red. Trousers on her legs, little shoes on her feet, and over the shoes other shoes with high heels; on her neck a necklace all of Russian fifty-kopeck coins. Her head uncovered, her braid black, and in the braid a ribbon and the ribbon hung with charms and a silver rouble.
Her father told her to do something. She ran off and came back bringing a little tin jug. She gave Zhilin the water and squatted on her heels herself, all doubled up so that her shoulders were lower than her knees. She sat, opened her eyes wide, and looked at Zhilin as he drank, as if he were some sort of animal.
Zhilin handed the jug back to her. She leaped away like a mountain goat. Even her father laughed. He sent her somewhere again. She took the jug, ran off, brought flatbread on a round board, and again sat doubled up, not taking her eyes off him—looking.
The Tartars left and locked the door again.
A short time later, the Nogai came to Zhilin and said:
“Aida, master, aida!”
He also did not know Russian. Zhilin understood only that he wanted him to go somewhere.
Zhilin went in his shackles, hobbling, unable to take a step, his feet turning aside all the time. Zhilin followed the Nogai out. He saw a Tartar village, some ten houses, and their church with a little tower. Three saddled horses were standing by one house. Some boys were holding them by the bridles. The dark Tartar sprang out of that house and waved his hand for Zhilin to come to him. He laughed, kept saying something in his own language, and went back indoors. Zhilin went into the house. The room was nice, the walls smoothly covered with clay. By the front wall lay multicolored feather beds, on the sides hung costly carpets; on the carpets—guns, pistols, sabers, all inlaid with silver. One wall had a small stove in it at floor level. The floor was earthen, clean, like a threshing floor, and the whole front corner was spread with felt; over the felt, carpets, and on the carpets, down pillows. And on the carpets sat Tartars in just their indoor shoes: the dark one, the red one, and three guests. They all had down pillows behind their backs, and before them, on a round board, millet pancakes, and melted cow’s butter in a bowl, and Tartar beer—bouza—in a little jug. They were eating with their hands, and their hands were all covered with butter.
The dark one jumped up, ordered Zhilin to be seated to the side, not on a carpet, but on the bare floor, went back to the carpet, and offered his guests pancakes and bouza. The man seated Zhilin in his place, took off his outer shoes, put them by the door next to where the other shoes stood, and sat down on the felt closer to the masters; he looked at them eating and wiped his watering mouth.
The Tartars finished eating the pancakes, and a Tartar woman came in wearing the same kind of shirt as the young one and trousers; her head was covered by a scarf. She took away the butter and pancakes, and brought a nice little basin and a jug with a narrow spout. The Tartars first washed their hands, then folded them, sat on their heels, blew in all directions, and recited prayers. They conversed in their own language. Then one of the Tartar guests turned to Zhilin and began speaking in Russian.
“You were captured by Kazi Muhammed,” he said, pointing to the red Tartar, “and he gave you to Abdul Murat,” he pointed to the dark one. “Abdul Murat is now your master.”
Zhilin was silent.
Abdul Murat began to speak, and he kept pointing to Zhilin, and laughing, and saying:
“Soldier uruss, kood uruss.”
The interpreter said:
“He tells you to write home a letter, to have ransom sent for you. When the money comes, he will let you go.”
Zhilin thought a moment and said:
“How much does he want as ransom?”
The Tartars talked it over, then the interpreter said:
“Three thousand coins.”
“No,” said Zhilin, “that I cannot pay.”
Abdul jumped up, started waving his arms, and said something to Zhilin—still thinking he could understand. The interpreter translated, saying:
“How much will you give?”
Zhilin thought a moment and said:
“Five hundred roubles.”
Here the Tartars began talking quickly, all at once. Abdul started shouting at the red one; he jabbered so that saliva sprayed from his mouth. But the red one only narrowed his eyes and clucked his tongue. They fell silent; the interpreter said:
“For the master five hundred roubles small ransom. He paid two hundred roubles for you himself. Kazi Muhammed owed him money. He took you for debt. Three thousand roubles, he cannot allow less. And if you do not write, in hole they put you, punish you with whip.”
“Eh,” Zhilin thought, “the more timid I am with them, the worse it gets.” He jumped to his feet and said:
“And you tell that dog that if he tries to scare me, I won’t give him a kopeck, and I won’t write at all. I was never afraid of you dogs and never will be!”
The interpreter translated, and again they all began talking at once.
They jabbered for a long time, then the dark one jumped up and went over to Zhilin.
“Uruss,” he said, “dzhigit uruss, dzhigit!” (“Dzhigit” means “fine fellow” in their language.) And he laughed. He said something to the interpreter, and the interpreter said:
“Give one thousand.”
Zhilin stood his ground.
“I won’t give more than five hundred roubles. And if you kill me, you won’t get anything.”
The Tartars talked for a while, sent the man somewhere, and kept glancing now at Zhilin, now at the door. The man came back, and behind him walked someone fat, barefoot, and in tatters. His feet were also shackled.
Zhilin gasped—he recognized Kostylin. He, too, had been captured. They were seated side by side; they began talking to each other, while the Tartars kept silent and looked on. Zhilin told what had happened to him; Kostylin told how his horse had stopped under him and his gun had misfired, and this same Abdul had caught up with him and taken him.
Abdul jumped up, pointed at Kostylin, and said something.
The interpreter translated that they both now had one master and that the one who paid the ransom first would be released first.
“See,” he said to Zhilin, “you keep getting angry, but your comrade is peaceable; he wrote a letter home, they will send five thousand coins. And he will be fed well and will not be harmed.”
Zhilin said:
“My comrade can do as he likes; he may be rich, but I am not rich. It will be as I said. Kill me if you wish, there won’t be any profit in it for you, but I won’t write more than five hundred roubles.”
Silence ensued. Suddenly Abdul jumped up, fetched a little chest, took out a pen, a scrap of paper, and ink, pushed them towards Zhilin, slapped him on the shoulder, and pointed: “Write.” He agreed to the five hundred roubles.
“Wait a minute,” Zhilin said to the translator, “tell him to feed us well, clothe and shoe us properly, and keep us together—it’ll be more cheerful for us—and remove these shackles.”
He looked at the master and laughed. The master laughed, too. He listened to it all and said:
“I’ll give them the best clothes: a cherkeska and boots fit for a wedding. I’ll feed them like princes. If they want to live together, let them live in the shed. But to remove the shackles is impossible—they’ll get away. I’ll only remove them at night.” He sprang over, patted Zhilin on the shoulder. “Yours kood, mine kood!”
Zhilin wrote the letter, but addressed it incorrectly so that it would not get there. He thought: “I’ll get away.”