skilful pilot, well acquainted, even in a fog, with all the dangers of the desert sea, the Tcherkess flew on before the horses, wound his way among the posts, and at last, having chosen a spot where the bank was most precipitous, leaped headlong into the Terek.  The whole herd followed him:  nothing could be seen but the foam that flew into the air.  Daybreak appeared; the fog began to separate, and discovered a picture at once magnificent and terrible.  The principal band of forayers dragged the prisoners after it—­some were at the stirrup, others behind the saddle, with their arms tied at their backs.  Tears, and groans, and cries of despair were stifled by the threats and frantic cries of joy of the victors.  Loaded with plunder, impeded by the flocks and horned cattle, they advanced slowly towards the Terek.  The princes and best cavaliers, in mail-coats and casques glittering like water, galloped around the dense mass, as lightning flashes round a livid cloud.  In the distance, were galloping up from every point the Kazaks of the Line; they ambushed behind the shrubs and straggling oak-trees, and soon began an irregular fire with the brigands who were sent against them.

[Footnote 23:  The Tartars and Circassians possess extraordinary dexterity in the use of their national weapon—­the kinjal, or poniard.  These are sometimes of great size and weight, and when thrown by a skilful hand, will fly a considerable distance, and with the most singular accuracy of aim.]

In the meantime, the foremost had driven across the river a portion of the flocks, when a cloud of dust, and the tramp of cavalry, announced the approaching storm.  About six hundred mountaineers, commanded by Djemboulat and Ammalat, turned their horses to repulse the attack, and give time to the rest to escape by the river.  Without order, but with wild cries and shouts, they dashed forward to meet the Kazaks; but not a single gun was taken from its belt, not a single shashka glimmered in the air:  a Tcherkess waits till the last moment before he seizes his weapons.  And thus, having galloped to the distance of twenty paces, they levelled their guns, fired at full speed, threw their fire-arms over their backs, [24] and drew their shashkas; but the Kazaks of the Line having replied with a volley, began to fly, and the mountaineers, heated by the chase, fell into a stratagem which they often employ themselves.  The Kazaks had led them up to the chasseurs of the brave forty-third regiment, who were concealed at the edge of the forest.  Suddenly, as if the little squares had started out of the earth, the bayonets were leveled, and the fire poured on them, taking them in flank.  It was in vain that the mountaineers, dismounting from their horses, essayed to occupy the underwood, and attack the Russians from the rear; the artillery came up, and decided the affair.  The experienced Colonel Kortsareff, the dread of the Tchetchenetz, the man whose bravery they feared, and whose honesty and disinterestedness