the water, his Turkomen following behind him. The bottom was uneven; the Mongols slipped and fell. The water, whipped by a stiff breeze, beat in enormous waves against the steep wall, hampering their progress. Although from the Mongolian position it was no further than two hundred paces to the bank, they spent over half an hour traversing the distance. But the water by the wall was still deeper reaching almost to their armpits and they found not a trace of a path leading up the wall of rock. From neighboring Tukholian positions the stones hailed down upon the daredevils, and although the largest number of them either dashed themselves in vain against the wall of rock or fell into the water, Burunda’s station in that place was exceedingly inconvenient and ineffectual.
“Perhaps your youths know how to climb better,” Maxim mocked. “It’s quite possible to clamber up the wall to the top.”
But none of the steppe-raised Turkomen could scale the precipitous wall of stone.
“In that case,” said Maxim, “let me, Behadir, be the first to climb to the top and show you how.”
But Burunda was no longer listening. He was already planning something else. He divided his company once more, one group he left in the newly gained position, beneath the protection of an overhanging ridge of rock, with the other group, Tuhar Wolf and Maxim, he set out to seek a more advantageous post. But as soon as the group of them, wading up to their waists in the water, showed themselves beyond the protecting ridge protruding from the wall of rock, the Tukholian engines bombarded them with stones, felling nearly half their number. The rest were forced to retreat.
“Let us return to our safer post, Behadir,” said Tuhar Wolf. “Do you hear the foam and splash of the waves and the screams coming from the upper end of the valley? I think the real flood is on the way.”
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