She grasped his stirrup, clung to his saddle, and with despair in her eyes, refused to loose her hold.

Two stout Cossacks seized her carefully, and bore her back into the hut.

But before the cavalcade had passed out of the courtyard, she rushed with the speed of a wild goat, disproportionate to her years, to the gate, stopped a horse with irresistible strength, and embraced one of her sons with mad, unconscious violence.

Then they led her away again.
The young Cossacks rode on sadly, repressing their tears out of fear of their father, who, on his side, was somewhat moved, although he strove not to show it.

The morning was grey, the green sward bright, the birds twittered rather discordantly.