"Only, my good fellow," said he, "don't grip me round the throat, but lay hold of my shoulders."
It was a heavy load for Zhilin. His feet also were all bloody, and he was tired to death. He felt crushed, tried to get into an easier position, hitched his shoulder so as to get Kostuilin to sit higher—and flung him into the road.
It was quite plain that the Tatar had heard Kostuilin yell, for as Zhilin listened he could hear someone coming back and making a peculiar cry. Zhilin flung himself into the bushes. The Tatar seized his musket, fired it, hit nothing, whined in Tatar fashion, and galloped down the road again.
"Well, my brother, he has gone anyway," said Zhilin; "but the dog will at once collect all the Tatars he can find and pursue us. If we don't do our three miles, we're done for." But he thought to himself: "What devil put it into my head to take this blockhead with me! Had I been alone I should have got off long ago."
"You go on alone," said Kostuilin, "why should you come to grief all through me?"
"Nay, I will not go alone, it is wrong to desert a comrade."
So he took him on his shoulders again and went on. And in this way he covered a mile. The forest stretched right on, and there was no sign of an exit The mist was beginning to disperse, and little clouds—or so they seemed—fared along, the stars were no longer visible. Zhilin was puzzled.
A spring, set among rocks, crossed the road, and here Zhilin stopped and set down Kostuilin.
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