Petchorin mounted; I lifted her from the ground, and placed her carefully before him on the saddle; he put his arm round her, and we rode back to the fort. We sent for the surgeon; he was rather drunk, but he came; and having examined the wound, he told us she could not live two days. He was wrong however—
M.—No. The surgeon was only thus far mistaken, that she did survive for two days.
L.—But tell me, how had Kasbitch contrived to carry her off?
M.—In this way. Contrary to Petchorin’s express desire, she had gone out of the fort to the stream. The weather you see, was very hot, so she sat down on a stone, and bathed her feet in the water. Just then Kasbitch stole along, pounced upon her, clapped his hand upon her mouth, dragged her into the thicket, where he sprang on his horse with her, and was off. Meanwhile she had been able to cry out; the sentinels were alarmed; they fired, but missed; and at that moment we came up.
L.—But what was Kasbitch’s motive for carrying her off?
M.—Motive? Why, they are all notorious robbers, these Circassians. If any thing is badly watched, you may be sure they will not leave it alone. Many a thing may be of no use to them, but they steal it for all that. Besides he had long had a fancy for the girl.
M.—She died; but she suffered long, and we also with her. She became conscious again about ten, that night. We were sitting by her bedside. The moment she opened her eyes, she called for Petchorin. ‘Here I am, my zhaneshka’ (my little soul), he said, taking her hand in his. ‘I shall die,’ she said. We began to comfort her, and told her the surgeon had promised for certain he would bring her round. She shook her head, and turned her face to the wall: she was loath to die.
During the night she began to be delirious; her head burned, and feverish shiverings repeatedly convulsed her frame. She spoke in disjointed phrases, of her father and her brother; she would go to the mountains, to her home. Then she talked of Petchorin, calling him by all sorts of endearing names, or upbraiding him for having ceased to love his zhaneshka.
Well, well! it was a good thing she died; for what would have become of her, had Petchorin forsaken her? It would certainly have come to that, soon or late. One thing I confess, particularly distressed me: she never once uttered my name before she died; and yet I am sure I loved her like a father. Well, God forgive her for it!—And indeed for that matter, who am I, that she should think of me in her last moments?