Tarbush. wound round with cloth, is sitting.

He nears her, and Ludmila, led

By shock and fright, flies off her bed

And at him, and his cap she clutches,

And lifts a shaking fist, no doubt

To try to shield herself. And such is

The shriek the poor maid now lets out

The Moors are deafened by't, while pale

Than his fair captive turns her jailer.

He makes to flee, half turns about,

Claps hands to ears in desperation,

And trips, a victim of frustration

And umbrage, on his beard, falls to

The floor, gets up, falls dow^n anew,

Is quite entangled.... In a dither

His dusky menials all are. Hither

And thither rush they, shout and push.

Then. flushed, confused, a wee bit angered,

They bear him off to be untangled

And quite forget the dwarfs tarbush.

But what of our young hero? Pray

Remember the unlooked-for fracas.

Your pencil, quick, Orlovsky! Make us

A sketch of that night-shrouded fray.

The moon shines down upon a cruel

And savage match. Incensed, the young

Combatants fight their bloody duel

Thout respite. Their great lances flung

Are far from them, their swords lie shattered,

Likewise their shields, their mail is spattered

With blood.... And yet the gory joust

Goes on. Beneath them, waging battle,

Their steeds whip up dark clouds of dust.