Thanks to Pugatchéf, I had a pretty good horse, with which I shared my
scanty rations. Every day I passed beyond the ramparts, and I went and
fired away against the scouts of Pugatchéf. In these sort of skirmishes
the rebels generally got the better of us, as they had plenty of food
and were capitally mounted.

Our thin, starved cavalry was unable to stand against them. Sometimes
our famished infantry took the field, but the depth of the snow
prevented action with any success against the flying cavalry of the
enemy. The artillery thundered vainly from the height of the ramparts,
and in the field guns could not work because of the weakness of the
worn-out horses. This is how we made war, and this is what the officials
of Orenburg called prudence and foresight.

One day, when we had succeeded in dispersing and driving before us a
rather numerous band, I came up with one of the hindmost Cossacks, and I
was about to strike him with my Turkish sabre when he took off his cap
and cried--

"Good day, Petr' Andréjïtch; how is your health?"

I recognized our "_ouriadnik_." I cannot say how glad I was to see him.

"Good day, Maximitch," said I, "is it long since you left Bélogorsk?"

"No, not long, my little father, Petr' Andréjïtch; I only came back
yesterday. I have a letter for you."

"Where is it?" I cried, overjoyed.