[4] Lar is the Tartar plural of all substantives.

    [5] Beaters for the game.

The umbrageous oak-forests of Daghestan have served, from time immemorial, as a covert for innumerable herds of wild hogs; and although the Tartars—­like the Mussulmans—­hold it a sin not only to eat, but even to touch the unclean animal, they consider it a praiseworthy act to destroy them—­at least they practise the art of shooting on these beasts, as well as exhibit their courage, because the chase of the wild-boar is accompanied by great danger, and requires cunning and bravery.

The lengthened chain of hunters occupied a wide extent of ground; the most fearless marksmen selecting the most solitary posts, in order to divide with no one else the glory of success, and also because the animals make for those points where there are fewer people.  Colonel Verkhoffsky, confident in his gigantic strength and sure eye, posted himself in the thickest of the wood, and halted at a small savannah to which converged the tracks of numerous wild-boars.  Perfectly alone, leaning against the branch of a fallen tree, he awaited his game.  Interrupted shots were heard on the right and left of his station; for a moment a wild-boar appeared behind the trees; at length the bursting crash of falling underwood was heard, and immediately a boar of uncommon size darted across the field like a ball fired from a cannon.  The Colonel took his aim, the bullet whistled, and the wounded monster suddenly halted, as if in surprise—­but this was but for an instant—­he dashed furiously in the direction whence came the shot.  The froth smoked from his red-hot tusks, his eye burned in blood, and he flew at the enemy with a grunt.  But Verkhoffsky showed no alarm, waiting for the nearer approach of the brute:  a second time clicked the cock of his gun—­but the powder was damp and missed fire.  What now remained for the hunter?  He had not even a dagger at his girdle—­flight would have been useless.  As if by the anger of fate, not a single thick tree was near him—­only one dry branch arose from the oak against which he had leaned; and Verkhoffsky threw himself on it as the only means of avoiding destruction.  Hardly had he time to clamber an arschine and a half[6] from the ground, when the boar, enraged to fury, struck the branch with his tusks—­it cracked from the force of the blow and the weight which was supported by it....  It was in vain that Verkhoffsky tried to climb higher—­the bark was covered with ice—­his hands slipped—­he was sliding downwards; but the beast did not quit the tree—­he gnawed it—­he attacked it with his sharp tusks a tchetverin below the feet of the hunter.  Every instant Verkhoffsky expected to be sacrificed, and his voice died away in the lonely space in vain.  No, not in vain!  The sound of a horse’s hoofs was heard close at hand, and Ammalat Bek galloped up at full speed with uplifted sabre.  Perceiving a new enemy, the wild-boar turned at him, but a sideway leap of the horse decided the battle—­a blow from Ammalat hurled him on the earth.