154 THE HORSE AND HIS RIDER. 



when it grows dark, the ball, as we should call it, 

 begins. An old beggar strums upon a three stringed 

 instrument I forget what they call it ; the lads 

 and lasses stand up in two rows opposite each other, 

 clap hands and sing. A girl and a young man then 

 step into the middle space, and sing alternate verses, 

 just whatever comes into their heads, and the rest 

 join in chorus. Petchorin and I were seated in the 

 place of honour, and all of a sudden, our host's 

 youngest daughter, a girl about sixteen, stepped up 

 to my friend, and sang to him what shall I call it ? 

 a sort of compliment. 



L. But the words, the words, do you happen 

 to remember them ? 



M. Well I believe they were something to this 

 effect : ' Beautiful, in truth, are our young zhighit 

 dancers, and their caftans are richly adorned with 

 silver; but the young Russian officer is more beautiful 

 than they, and his laces are of gold. He towers 

 among them like a poplar, but it is not his destiny to 

 grow and flourish in our garden.' Petchorin rose and 

 bowed, laying his hand on his forehead and his breast, 

 arid requested me to reply for him. I knew their 

 language very well, and translated his answer. 



When the girl had left us, I whispered my com- 

 rade, Well what say you now ? What do you think 



