"At last we were within gunshot range of Kazbich. Whether his horse was exhausted or whether it was worse than ours I don't know, but he wasn't able to get much speed out of the animal in spite of his efforts to urge it on. I am sure he was thinking of his Karagyoz then...
"I looked up and saw Pechorin aiming on the gallop. 'Don't shoot!' I yelled. 'Save the charge, we'll catch up with him soon enough.' But that's youth for you: always foolhardy at the wrong time... The shot rang out and the bullet wounded the horse in a hind leg. The animal made another dozen leaps before it stumbled and fell on its knees. Kazbich sprang from the saddle, and now we saw he was holding a woman bound in a veil in his arms. It was Bela... poor Bela! He shouted something to us in his own language and raised his knife over her... There was no time to waste and I fired impulsively. I must have hit him in the shoulder, for his arm suddenly dropped. When the smoke blew away there was the wounded horse lying on the ground and Bela next to it, while Kazbich, who had thrown away his gun, was scrambling up a cliff through the bushes like a cat. I wanted to pick him off but my gun needed reloading now. We slipped out of the saddle and ran toward Bela. The poor girl lay motionless, blood streaming from her wound. The villain! Had he struck her in the heart, it all would have been over in a moment, but to stab her in the back in the foulest way! She was unconscious. We tore the veil into strips and bandaged the wound as tightly as we could. In vain did Pechorin kiss her cold lips-nothing could bring her back to consciousness.
"Pechorin mounted his horse and I raised her up from the ground, somehow managing to place her in front of him in the saddle. He put his arm around her and we started back. After several minutes of silence, Grigoriy Aleksandrovich spoke: 'Listen, Maksim Maksimich, we'll never get her home alive at this pace.' 'You're right,' I said, and we spurred the horses to full gallop. At the fort gates a crowd was awaiting us. We carried the wounded girl gently into Pechorin's quarters and sent for the surgeon. Although he was drunk, he came at our summons, and after examining the wound said the girl could not live more than a day. But he was wrong...
"She recovered, then?" I asked the captain, hanging onto his arm, glad in spite of myself.
"No," he replied, "the surgeon was wrong only in that she lived another two days."
"But, tell me, how did Kazbich manage to kidnap her?"
"It was like this: disobeying Pechorin's instructions, she had left the fort and gone to the river. It was very hot, you know, and she had sat down on a rock and dipped her feet into the water. Kazbich crept up, grabbed and gagged her, dragged her into the bushes, jumped on his horse and galloped off. She managed to scream, however, and the sentries gave the alarm, fired after him but missed, and that's when we arrived on the scene."
" Why did[61] Kazbich want to carry her off?"
"My dear sir! These Circassians are notorious thieves. Their fingers itch for anything that lies unguarded. Whether they need it or not, they steal-they just can't help themselves! Besides he had long had his eye on Bela."
"And she died?"
"Yes, but she suffered a great deal, and we too suffered enough watching her. About ten o'clock at night she regained consciousness. We were sitting at her bedside. As soon as she opened her eyes, she asked for Pechorin. 'I am here, beside you, my dzhanechka,' (that is, "darling" in our language) he replied, taking her hand. 'I will die,' she said. We began to reassure her, saying that the surgeon had promised to cure her without fail, but she shook her head and turned to the wall. She didn't want to die!
"During the night she grew delirious. Her head was on fire and every now and then she shook with fever. She was now talking incoherently about her father and brother. She wanted to go back to her mountains and home... Then she also talked about Pechorin, calling him all kinds of tender names or reproaching him for not loving his dzhanechka any more...
"He listened in silence, his head resting on his hands. But throughout it all I didn't notice a single tear on his lashes-whether he held himself in deliberately, I don't know. As for myself, I had never witnessed anything more heart-breaking.
"By morning the delirium passed. For about an hour she lay motionless, pale and so weak that her breathing was barely perceptible. Presently she felt better and began to speak again, but can you guess of what? Such thoughts can occur only to the dying. She regretted that she was not a Christian and that in the world beyond, her soul would never meet Grigoriy Aleksandrovich's, that some other woman would be his soulmate in paradise. It occurred to me that she might be baptized before death, but when I suggested this she looked at me in indecision for a long time, unable to say a word. At last she replied that she would die in the faith in which she had been born. So the whole day passed. How she changed in that day! Her death-white cheeks grew sunken, her eyes seemed to become larger and larger, and her lips were burning. The fever within her was like a red-hot iron pressing upon her breast.
"The second night came, and we sat at her bedside without closing an eyelid. She was in terrible agony, she moaned, but as soon as the pain subsided a little she tried to assure Pechorin that she was feeling better, urged him to get some sleep, and kissed his hand and clung to it with her own. Just before daybreak the agony of death set in, and she tossed on the bed, tearing off the bandage so that the blood flowed again. When the wound was dressed she calmed down for a moment and asked Pechorin to kiss her. He knelt next to the bed, raised her head from the pillow and pressed his lips against hers, which were now growing chill. She twisted her trembling arms tightly around his neck as if by this kiss she wished to give her soul to him. Yes, it was good that she died! What would have happened to her had Pechorin abandoned her? And that was bound to happen sooner or later...
"The first half of the next day she was quiet, silent and submissive in spite of the way our surgeon tortured her with hot wet pads[62] and other remedies. 'My good man!' I protested. 'You yourself said she would not live, why then all these medicines of yours?' 'Got to do it, just the same, Maksim Maksimich,' he replied, 'so that my conscience will be at peace.' Conscience my eye!
"In the afternoon she was tortured by thirst. We opened the windows, but it was hotter outside than in the room. We placed ice next to her bed, but nothing helped. I knew that this unbearable thirst was a sign that the end was approaching, and I said so to Pechorin. 'Water, water,' she repeated hoarsely, raising herself from the bed.
"He went white as a sheet, picked up a glass, filled it with water, and gave it to her. I buried my face in my hands and began to recite a prayer, I can't remember which. Yes, sir, I had been through a great deal in my time, had seen men die in hospitals and on the battlefield, but it had been nothing like this! Nothing! I must confess that there was something else that made me sad-not once before her death did she remember me, and I think I loved her like a father. Well... May God forgive her! But then who am I that anyone would remember me on their death bed?
"As soon as she had drunk the water she felt better, and some three minutes later she passed away. We pressed a mirror to her lips, but nothing showed on it. I led Pechorin out of the room, and then we walked on the fort wall, pacing back and forth side by side for a long while without uttering a word, our hands behind our backs. It angered me to detect no sign of emotion on his face, for in his place I'd have died of grief. Finally, he sat down on the ground in the shade and began to draw something in the sand with a stick. I began to speak, wishing to console him, more for the sake of good form than anything else, you know, whereupon he looked up and laughed... That laugh sent cold shivers running up and down my spine... I went to order the coffin.
61
did Kazbich want to carry her off?: The previous motivation seems to have been forgotten – why didn't he take off after his beloved courser instead of the girl?