The arrival of a Russian detachment could have been no novelty to the inhabitants of Daghestán 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 podvód[22], and so on. A multitude of loungers and boys, however, surrounded the Russians as they reposed upon the grass. Some of the Kekkhoúds (starosts[23]) and Tehaoúshes (desiátniks[24]) appointed by the Russian Government, hastily advancing to the Captain, pulled off their caps, after the usual salutation, "Khot ghialdi!" (welcome!) and "Yakshimoúsen, tazamoúsen, sen-ne-ma-moúsen," (I greet you,) arrived at the inevitable question at a meeting of Asiatics, "What news?"--"Na khaber?"
[22] The being obliged to transport provisions.
"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 _ápropos_, a blacksmith!" he continued, turning to a broad-shouldered Tartar, who was filing the fresh-shod hoof of Ammalát's horse. "Kounák! (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 arákshin (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."