Trunila is! He knew me," said Natasha,
referring to her favorite hound.

"In the first place, Trunila is not a 'dog,' but a harrier," thought
Nicholas, and looked sternly at his sister, trying to make her feel the
distance that ought to separate them at that moment. Natasha understood
it.

"You mustn't think we'll be in anyone's way, Uncle," she said. "We'll go
to our places and won't budge."

"A good thing too, little countess," said "Uncle," "only mind you don't
fall off your horse," he added, "because--that's it, come on!--you've
nothing to hold on to."

The oasis of the Otradnoe covert came in sight a few hundred yards off,
the huntsmen were already nearing it. Rostov, having finally settled
with "Uncle" where they should set on the hounds, and having shown
Natasha where she was to stand--a spot where nothing could possibly run
out--went round above the ravine.

"Well, nephew, you're going for a big wolf," said "Uncle." "Mind and
don't let her slip!"

"That's as may happen," answered Rostov. "Karay, here!" he shouted,
answering "Uncle's" remark by this call to his borzoi. Karay was a
shaggy old dog with a hanging jowl, famous for having tackled a big wolf
unaided. They all took up their places.

The old count, knowing his son's ardor in the hunt, hurried so as not
to be late, and the huntsmen had not yet reached their places when Count
Ilya Rostov, cheerful, flushed, and with quivering cheeks, drove up
with his black horses over the winter rye to the place reserved for him,
where a wolf might come out. Having straightened his coat and fastened
on his hunting knives and horn, he mounted his good, sleek, well-fed,
and comfortable horse, Viflyanka, which was turning gray, like himself.
His horses and trap were sent home. Count Ilya Rostov, though not at
heart a keen sportsman, knew the rules of the hunt well, and rode to
the bushy edge of the road where he was to stand, arranged his reins,
settled himself in the saddle, and, feeling that he was ready, looked
about with a smile.

Beside him was Simon Chekmar, his personal attendant, an old horseman
now somewhat stiff in the saddle. Chekmar held in leash three formidable
wolfhounds, who had, however, grown fat like their master and his horse.
Two wise old dogs lay down unleashed. Some hundred paces farther along
the edge of the wood stood Mitka, the count's other groom, a daring
horseman and keen rider to hounds. Before the hunt, by old custom, the
count had d