“What are you shouting for? The Tartar is still near; he’ll have heard you!” And he thought to himself, “He is really quite done up. What am I to do with him? It won’t do to desert a comrade.”
“Well, then, get up, and climb up on my back. I’ll carry you if you really can’t walk.”
He helped Kostílin up, and put his arms under his thighs. Then he went out on to the path, carrying him.
“Only, for the love of heaven,” said Zhílin, “don’t throttle me with your hands! Hold on to my shoulders.”
Zhílin found his load heavy; his feet, too, were bleeding, and he was tired out. Now and then he stooped to balance Kostílin better, jerking him up so that he should sit higher, and then went on again.
The Tartar must, however, really have heard Kostílin scream. Zhílin suddenly heard someone galloping behind and shouting in the Tartar tongue. He darted in among the bushes. The Tartar seized his gun and fired, but did not hit them, shouted in his own language, and galloped off along the road.
“Well, now we are lost, friend!” said Zhílin. “That dog will gather the Tartars together to hunt us down. Unless we can get a couple of miles away from here we are lost!” And he thought to himself, “Why the devil did I saddle myself with this block? I should have got away long ago had I been alone.”
“Go on alone,” said Kostílin. “Why should you perish because of me?”
“No I won’t go. It won’t do to desert a comrade.”
Again he took Kostílin on his shoulders and staggered on. They went on in that way for another half-mile or more. They were still in the forest,