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right under your noses。”
“That’s where I’m going。 Shall we join the packs？” asked Nikolay。
The hounds were joined into one pack； and the uncle and Nikolay rode on side by side。
Natasha； muffled up in a shawl which did not hide her eager face and shining eyes； galloped up to them； accompanied by Petya； who kept beside her； and Mihailo； the huntsman and groom； who had been told to look after her。 Petya was laughing and switching and pulling his horse。 Natasha sat her raven Arabtchick with grace and confidence and controlled him with an easy and steady hand。
The uncle looked with disapproval at Petya and Natasha。 He did not like a mixture of frivolity with the serious business of the hunt。
“Good…day； uncle； we’re coming to the hunt too！” shouted Petya。
“Good…day； good…day； and mind you don’t ride down the dogs；” said the uncle sternly。
“Nikolenka； what a delightful dog Trunila is！ he knew me；” said Natasha of her favourite dog。
“In the first place； Trunila’s not a dog； but a wolf…hound；” thought Nikolay。 He glanced at his sister trying to make her feel the distance that lay between them at that moment。 Natasha understood it。
“Don’t imagine we shall get in anybody’s way； uncle；” said Natasha。
“We’ll stay in our right place and not stir from it。”
“And you’ll do well； little countess；” said the uncle。 “Only don’t fall off your horse；” he added； “or you’d never get on again—all’s well； quick march！”
The Otradnoe preserve came into sight； an oasis of greenness； two hundred and fifty yards away。 Rostov； settling finally with the uncle from what point to set the dogs on； pointed out to Natasha the place where she was to stand； a place where there was no chance of anything running out； and went round to close in from behind above the ravine。
“Now； nephew； you’re on the track of an old wolf；” said the uncle； “mind he doesn’t give you the slip。”
“That’s as it happens；” answered Rostov。 “Karay； hey！” he shouted； replying to the uncle’s warning by this call to his dog。 Karay was an old； misshapen； muddy…coloured hound； famous for attacking an old wolf unaided。 All took their places。
The old count； who knew his son’s ardour in the hunt； hurried to avoid being late； and the whippers…in had hardly reached the place when Count Ilya Andreitch； with a cheerful face； and flushed and quivering cheeks； drove up with his pair of raven horses； over the green field to the place left for him。 Straightening his fur coat and putting on his hunting appurtenances； he mounted his sleek； well…fed； quiet； good…humoured Viflyanka； who was turning grey like himself。 The horses with the gig were sent back。 Count Ilya Andreitch； though he was at heart no sportsman； knew well all the rules of sport。 He rode into the edge of the thicket of bushes； behind which he was standing； picked up the reins； settled himself at his ease in the saddle； and； feeling that he was ready； looked about him smiling。
Near him stood his valet； Semyon Tchekmar； a veteran horseman； though now heavy in the saddle。 Tchekmar held on a leash three wolfhounds of a special breed； spirited hounds； though they too had grown fat like their master and his horse。 Two other keen old dogs were lying beside them not in a leash。 A hundred paces further in the edge of the copse stood another groom of the count’s； Mitka； a reckless rider and passionate sportsman。 The count had followed the old custom of drinking before hunting a silver goblet of spiced brandy； he had had a slight lunch and after that half a bottle of his favourite bordeaux。
Count Ilya Andreitch was rather flushed from the wine and the drive； his eyes； covered by moisture； were particularly bright； and sitting in the saddle wrapped up in his fur coat； he looked like a baby taken out for a drive。
After seeing after his duties； Tchekmar； with his thin face and sunken cheeks； looked towards his master； with whom he had lived on the best of terms for thirty years。 Perceiving that he was in a genial humour； he anticipated a pleasant chat。 A third person rode circumspectly—he had no doubt been cautioned—out of the wood； and stood still behind the count。 This personage was a grey…bearded old man； wearing a woman’s gown and a high； peaked cap。 It was the buffoon； Nastasya Ivanovna。
“Well； Nastasya Ivanovna；” whispered the count； winking at him； “you only scare off the game； and Danilo will give it you。”
“I wasn’t born yesterday；” said Nastasya Ivanovna。
“Sh！” hissed the count； and he turned to Semyon。 “Have you seen Natalya Ilyinitchna？” he asked Semyon。 “Where is she？”
“Her honour’s with Pyotr Ilyitch； behind the high grass at Zharvry；” answered Semyon； smiling。 “Though she is a lady； she has a great love for the chase。”
“And you wonder at her riding； Semyon；…eh？” said the count； “for a man even it wouldn’t be amiss！”
“Who wouldn’t wonder！ So daring； so smart！”
“And where’s Nikolasha？ Above the Lyadovsky upland； eh？” the count asked still in a whisper。
“Yes； sir。 His honour knows where he had best stand。 He knows the ins and outs of hunting； so that Danilo and I are sometimes quite astonished at him；” said Semyon； who knew how to please his master。
“He’s a good； clever sportsman； eh？ And what do you say to his riding； eh？”
“A perfect picture he is！ How he drove the fox out of the Zavarzinsky thicket the other day。 He galloped down from the ravine； it was a sight—the horse worth a thousand roubles； and the rider beyond all price。 Yes； you would have to look a long while to find his match！”
“To look a long while…” repeated the count； obviously regretting that Semyon’s praises had come to so speedy a termination。 “A long while；” he repeated； turning back the skirt of his coat and looking for his snuff…box。
“The other day they were coming out from Mass in all their glory； Mihail Sidoritch…” Semyon stopped short； hearing distinctly in the still air the rush of the hounds； with no more than two or three dogs giving tongue。 With his head on one side； he listened； shaking a warning finger at his master。 “They’re on the scent of the litter…” he whispered； “they have gone straight toward Lyadovsky upland。”
The count； with a smile still lingering on his face； looked straight before him along the path； and did not take a pinch from the snuff…box he held in his hand。 The hounds’ cry was followed by the bass note of the hunting cry for a wolf sounded on Danilo’s horn。 The pack joined the first three dogs； and the voices of the hounds could be heard in full cry with the peculiar note which serves to betoken that they are after a wolf。 The whippers…in were not now hallooing； but urging on the hounds with cries of “Loo！ loo！ loo！” and above all the voices rose the voice of Danilo； passing from a deep note to piercing shrillness。 Danilo’s voice seemed to fill the whole forest； to pierce beyond it； and echo far away in the open country。
After listening for a few seconds in silence； the count and his groom felt certain that the hounds had divided into two packs： one； the larger； was going off into the distance； in particularly hot cry； the other part of the pack was moving along the forest past the count； and it was with this pack th