they respected, directed the movements of the troops, and success could not be doubtful.  The cannon dispersed the crowds of brigands, and their grape flew after the flying.  The defeat was terrible; two guns, dashing at a gallop to the promontory, not far from which the Tcherkess were throwing themselves into the river, enfiladed the stream; with a rushing sound, the shot flew over the foaming waves, and at each fire some of the horses might be seen to turn over with their feet in the air, drowning their riders.  It was sad to see how the wounded clutched at the tails and bridles of the horses of their companions, sinking them without saving themselves—­how the exhausted struggled against the scarped bank, endeavouring to clamber up, fell back, and were borne away and engulfed by the furious current.  The corpses of the slain were whirled away, mingled with the dying and streaks of blood curled and writhed like serpents on the foam.  The smoke floated far along the Terek, far in the distance, and the snowy peaks of Caucasus, crowned with mist, bounded the field of battle.  Djemboulat and Ammalat Bek fought desperately—­twenty times did they rush to the attack, twenty times were they repulsed; wearied, but not conquered, with a hundred brigands they swam the river, dismounted, attached their horses to each other by the bridle, and began a warm fire from the other side of the river, to cover their surviving comrades.  Intent upon this, they remarked, too late, that the Kazaks were passing the river above them; with a shout of joy, the Russians leaped upon the bank, and surrounded them in a moment.  Their fate was inevitable.  “Well, Djemboulat,” said the Bek to the Kabardinetz, “our lot is finished.  Do you what you will; but for me, I will not render myself a prisoner alive.  ’Tis better to die by a ball than by a shameful cord!” “Do you think,” answered Djemboulat, “that my arms were made for a chain!  Allah keep me from such a blot:  the Russians may take my body, but not my soul.  Never, never!  Brethren, comrades!” he cried to the others; “fortune has betrayed us, but the steel will not.  Let us sell our lives dearly to the Giaour.  The victor is not he who keeps the field, but he who has the glory; and the glory is his who prefers death to slavery!” “Let us die, let us die; but let us die gloriously,” cried all, piercing with their daggers the sides of their horses, that the enemy might not take them, and then piling up the dead bodies of their steeds, they lay down behind the heap, preparing to meet the attack with lead and steel.  Well aware of the obstinate resistance they were about to encounter, the Kazaks stopped, and made ready for the charge.  The shot from the opposite bank sometimes fell in the midst of the brave mountaineers, sometimes a grenade exploded, covering them with earth and fragments; but they showed no confusion, they started not, nor blenched; and, after the custom of their country, began to sing, with a melancholy, yet threatening voice, the death-song, replying alternately stanza for stanza.