‘Ride to the Upper Post,’ shouted one.

‘Saddle and catch us up, be quick,’ said another.

‘It’s nearer through the other gate!’

‘What are you talking about?’ cried Lukashka. ‘We must go through the middle gates, of course.’

‘So we must, it’s nearer that way,’ said one of the Cossacks who was covered with dust and rode a perspiring horse. Lukashka’s face was red and swollen after the drinking of the previous night and his cap was pushed to the back of his head. He was calling out with authority as though he were an officer.

‘What is the matter? Where are you going?’ asked Olenin, with difficulty attracting the Cossacks’