The arrival of a Russian detachment could have been no novelty to the inhabitants of Daghestan in the year 1819; and even yet, it must be confessed, it is an event that gives them no pleasure.  Superstition made them look on the Russians as eternal enemies—­enemies, however, vigorous and able; and they determined, therefore, not to injure them but in secret, by concealing their hatred under a mask of amity.  A buzz spread among the people on the appearance of the Russians:  the women returned by winding paths to the village, not forgetting, however, to gaze secretly at the strangers.  The men, on the contrary, threw fierce glances at them over their shoulders, and began to assemble in groups, discussing how they might best get rid of them, and relieve themselves from the podvod[22], and so on.  A multitude of loungers and boys, however, surrounded the Russians as they reposed upon the grass.  Some of the Kekkhouds (starosts[23]) and Tehaoushes (desiatniks[24]) appointed by the Russian Government, hastily advancing to the Captain, pulled off their caps, after the usual salutation, “Khot ghialdi!” (welcome!) and “Yakshimousen, tazamousen, sen-ne-ma-mousen,” (I greet you,) arrived at the inevitable question at a meeting of Asiatics, “What news?”—­“Na khaber?”

     [22] The being obliged to transport provisions.

     [23] The chief of a village.

     [24] The subordinates of the atarost.

“The only news with me is, that my horse has cast a shoe, and the poor devil is dead lame,” answered the Captain in pretty good Tartar:  “and here is, just apropos, a blacksmith!” he continued, turning to a broad-shouldered Tartar, who was filing the fresh-shod hoof of Ammalat’s horse.  “Kounak! (my friend,)—­shoe my horse—­the shoes are ready—­’tis but the clink of a hammer, and ’tis done in a moment!”

The blacksmith turned sulkily towards the Captain a face tanned by his forge and by the sun, looked from the corners of his eyes at his questioner, stroked the thick mustache which overshadowed a beard long unrazored, and which might for its bristles have done honour to any boar; flattened his arakshin (bonnet) on his head, and coolly continued putting away his tools in their bag.

“Do you understand me, son of a wolf race?” said the Captain.

“I understand you well,” answered the blacksmith,—­“you want your horse shod.”

“And I should advise you to shoe him,” replied the Captain, observing on the part of the Tartar a desire to jest.

“To-day is a holiday:  I will not work.”

“I will pay you what you like for your work; but I tell you that, whether you like it or not, you must do what I want.”

“The will of Allah is above ours; and he does not permit us to work on Djouma.  We sin enough for gain on common days, so on a holiday I do not wish to buy coals with silver."[25]

     [25] Go to the devil.

“But were you not at work just now, obstinate blockhead?  Is not one horse the same as another?  Besides, mine is a real Mussulman—­look at the mark[26]—­the blood of Karabakh.”