scars of the sabre-cuts showed how seriously injured the old kazák had been. But he had become markedly sad and morose. Three deep wrinkles had engraved themselves upon his brow, and never more departed thence. Then he looked about him: all was new in the Syech; all his old comrades were dead. Not one was left of those who had defended the right, the Faith, and brotherhood. And as for those who had fared forth with the Koshevói in pursuit of the Tatárs, they, also, had died long since: all had laid down their heads: all had perished. One had lost his honourable head in battle, another had died for lack of bread and water, amid the salt marshes of the Crimea; another had disappeared in captivity, unable to endure the disgrace, and even their former Koshevói was long since dead, and so were all old comrades, and the seething kazák power was overgrown with grass. He heard only that there had been a feast, a noisy, strenuous feast. All the dishes had been smashed to bits: not a drop of liquor was left anywhere; the guests and servants had stolen all the valuable cups and platters,—and the master of the house stood sadly thinking that it would have been better had there been no feast. In vain did they try to cheer Taras, and to divert his mind; in vain did the long-bearded, grey-haired bandura-players, passing by in twos and
