All three horsemen rode in silence.

Old Taras's thoughts were far away: before him passed his youth, his years--the swift-flying years, over which the Cossack always weeps, wishing that his life might be all youth.

He wondered whom of his former comrades he should meet at the Setch.

He reckoned up how many had already died, how many were still alive.

Tears formed slowly in his eyes, and his grey head bent sadly.
His sons were occupied with other thoughts.