gun up to his shoulder. Andríi was white as linen: his lips could be seen to move softly, and he uttered a name; but it was not the name of his native land, or of his mother, or of his brethren; it was the name of the beautiful Pole. Taras fired.
Like an ear of corn cut down by the reaping-hook, like a young limb when it feels the deadly steel in its heart, he hung his head and rolled upon the grass without uttering a word.
The murderer of his son stood and gazed long upon the lifeless body. Even in death he was very handsome: his manly face, so short a time ago filled with power, and irresistible charm for every woman, still breathed forth marvellous beauty; his black brows, like sombre velvet, set off his pale features.
"In what way wasn't he a genuine kazák?" said Taras: "he's tall of stature, and black-browed, and his face is that of a nobleman, and his hand was strong in battle! He has fallen, fallen ingloriously, like a vile dog!"
"Father, what have you done? Was it you who killed him?" said Ostap, riding up at this moment.
Taras nodded.
Ostap gazed intently at the dead man. He felt sorry for his brother, and said, at once: "Let's
