The volume of sound (stern and savage to the last degree, but yet full of a weird, unearthly melody) fills the whole air like the rush of a storm; and now, the Cossack blood being thoroughly heated, the play suddenly turns to earnest. The nearest dancer, a tall, handsome lad with a heavy black moustache, suddenly fells his next neighbor with a tremendous blow between the eyes, which Heenan himself might have applauded. The next moment the conqueror falls in his turn before a crushing right-hander from his _vis-à-vis_; and in an instant the whole band are at it hammer and tongs--apparently without "sides," order, or object of any kind, except the mere pleasure of thrashing and being thrashed. There is little science among the combatants, who deliver their blows in a slashing, round-hand style that would agonize a professional "bruiser"; but every blow dealt by those brawny arms leaves its mark, and the whole company speedily look as if they had been taking part in an election. "By Jove!" says Smoothbore, with considerable feeling; "it does one good to see a real good fight so far away from home!" "You'd see plenty such in Central Russia," answer I. "Two villages often turn out to fight, just as we'd turn out to play cricket.[M] They call it 'Koolatchni boi.'" [Footnote M: I remember one such battle near Moscow, in October, 1809, in which more than a thousand men took part.] But Sinbad, being a man of humane temper, thinks that the sport has gone far enough, and appeals to the Ataman to stop it. One word from the all-powerful chief suffices to part the combatants; and, a messenger being despatched for some corn-whiskey, they are speedily chinking glasses as merrily as if nothing had happened. I am standing unsuspectingly in their midst when suddenly the whole company rush upon me as one man, and I find myself lifted in their arms and tossed bodily into the air six times in succession, amid yells of applause, to which all the previous uproar is as nothing.[N] Next they pounce upon Allfact, who, in his thirst for new ideas, submits readily enough; but Sinbad and Smoothbore take to their heels at once, and are with difficulty pacified by our host and his venerable father, who are looking on from the doorway. [Footnote N: This singular compliment (a universal one among the Cossacks) is probably a relic of the old custom of raising their "Kosbevoi," or head chief, on a shield when elected.] This closes the entertainment, for it is now nearly midnight, and we are to start again at sunrise. We take a cordial leave of our new friends, and depart, laden with bunches of grapes which are somewhat difficult to carry conveniently. "I wonder why they tossed me up like that?" muses Allfact, as we grope our way down to the shore. "Why!" answers Smoothbore. "Why, to take a _rise_ out of you, to be sure." DAVID KER. DRIFT-WOOD. THE WILLS OF THE TRIUMVIRATE.