t not conquered, with a hundred
brigands they swam the river, dismounted, attached their horses to
each other by the bridle, and began a warm fire from the other side
of the river, to cover their surviving comrades. Intent upon this,
they remarked, too late, that the Kazaks were passing the river above
them; with a shout of joy, the Russians leaped upon the bank, and
surrounded them in a moment. Their fate was inevitable. "Well,
Djemboulat," said the Bek to the Kabardinetz, "our lot is finished.
Do you what you will; but for me, I will not render myself a
prisoner alive. 'Tis better to die by a ball than by a shameful cord!"
"Do you think," answered Djemboulat, "that my arms were made for a
chain! Allah keep me from such a blot: the Russians may take my body,
but not my soul. Never, never! Brethren, comrades!" he cried to the
others; "fortune has betrayed us, but the steel will not. Let us
sell our lives dearly to the Giaour. The victor is not he who keeps
the field, but he who has the glory; and the glory is his who
prefers death to slavery!" "Let us die, let us die; but let us die
gloriously," cried all, piercing with their daggers the sides of
their horses, that the enemy might not take them, and then piling
up the dead bodies of their steeds, they lay down behind the
heap, preparing to meet the attack with lead and steel. Well aware of
the obstinate resistance they were about to encounter, the Kazaks
stopped, and made ready for the charge. The shot from the opposite
bank sometimes fell in the midst of the brave mountaineers,
sometimes a grenade exploded, covering them with earth and fragments;
but they showed no confusion, they started not, nor blenched; and,
after the custom of their country, began to sing, with a melancholy,
yet threatening voice, the death-song, replying alternately stanza
for stanza.

[Footnote 24: The oriental nations carry their guns at their backs,
supported by a strap passing across the breast.]

DEATH-SONG.

CHORUS.

"Fame to us, death to you,
Alla-ha, Alla-hu!!"

SEMICHORUS.

"Weep, O ye maidens, on mountain and valley,
Lift the dirge for the sons of the brave;
We have fired our last bullet, have made our last rally,
And Caucasus gives us a grave.
Here the soft pipe no more shall invite us to slumber
--The thunder _our_ lullaby sings;
Our eyes not the maiden's dark tresses shall cumber,
_Them_ the raven shall shade with his wings!
Forget, O my chi