Olénin’s lodging was situated almost at the end of the village. At rare intervals, from somewhere far beyond the Térek in those parts whence Olénin had just come (the Chéchen or the Kumýtsk plain), came muffled sounds of firing. Olénin was feeling very well contented after three months of bivouac life. His newly washed face was fresh and his powerful body clean (an unaccustomed sensation after the campaign) and in all his rested limbs he was conscious of a feeling of tranquillity and strength. His mind, too, felt fresh and clear. He thought of the campaign and of past dangers. He remembered that he had faced them no worse than other men, and that he was accepted as a comrade among valiant Caucasians. His Moscow recollections were left behind Heaven knows how far! The old life was wiped out and a quite new life had begun in which there were as yet no mistakes. Here as a new man among new men he could gain a new and good reputation. He was conscious of a youthful and unreasoning joy of life. Looking now out of the window at the boys spinning their tops in the shadow of the house, now round his neat new lodging, he thought how pleasantly he would settle down to this new Cossack village life. Now and then he glanced at the mountains and the blue sky, and an appreciation of the solemn grandeur of nature mingled with his reminiscences and dreams. His new life had begun, not as he imagined it would when he left Moscow, but unexpectedly well. “The mountains, the mountains, the mountains!” they permeated all his thoughts and feelings. “He’s kissed his dog and licked the jug! ... Daddy Eróshka has kissed his dog!” suddenly the little Cossacks who had been spinning their tops under the window shouted, looking towards the side street. “He’s drunk his bitch, and his dagger!” shouted the boys, crowding together and stepping backwards. These shouts were addressed to Daddy Eróshka, who with his gun on his shoulder and some pheasants hanging at his girdle was returning from his shooting expedition. “I have done wrong, lads, I have!” he said, vigorously swinging his arms and looking up at the windows on both sides of the street. “I have drunk the bitch; it was wrong,” he repeated, evidently vexed but pretending not to care. Olénin was surprised by the boys’ behavior towards the old hunter, but was still more struck by the expressive, intelligent face and the powerful build of the man whom they called Daddy Eróshka. “Here Daddy, here Cossack!” he called. “Come here!” The old man looked into the window and stopped. “Good evening, good man,” he said, lifting his little cap off his cropped head. “Good evening, good man,” replied Olénin. “What is it the youngsters are shouting at you?” Daddy Eróshka came up to the window. “Why, they’re teasing the old man. No matter, I like it. Let them joke about their old daddy,” he said with those firm musical intonations with which old and venerable people speak. “Are you an army commander?” he added.