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Updated: May 22, 2025
The man, half stooping, caught the woolen bashlik that had fallen from his head. O'Malley watched the man complete the gesture. Still running, he replaced the cap upon his head. And coming up to his ears upon the wind were the words of a broken French sentence that he also recognized. Disjointed by terror, it completed an interrupted phrase: "... one of them is close upon us. Hide your eyes!
Beside him lay the sleeping figure of his companion, the bashlik of lamb's wool drawn closely down about the ears and neck, and the voluminous black burka shrouding him from feet to shoulders. A little distance away the horse stood, munching grass. Again he noted that there was no wind, and the shadows of the trees lay motionless upon the ground. The air smelt sweet of forest, soil, and dew.
The only detail of his outer world that lingered and that, already sinking out of sight like a stone into deep water was the image of the running peasant. For a moment he recalled the picture. He saw the man in the act of stooping after the fallen bashlik. He saw him seize it, lift it to his head again. But the picture was small already very far away.
Then I come in my carriage, drawn by three horses. Old Shakir, the coachman, is already my friend; it is he who prepares my meals and looks after me generally. I am well wrapped up in a Caucasian cloak, with a bashlik over my cap, and lean back comfortably and look at the country as we drive along.
Their picturesque costume consisted of tight pantaloons, and a short tunic, which was belted round the waist, and had cartridge pockets worked on the breast; a round laced cap, encircled with a black or white border of long-wooled sheepskin, formed their head-gear. In cold or rainy weather, they wore a bashlik, or hood, and a bourka, or cloak, of impervious felt.
Before the bashlik actually reached the head, the detail dipped into mist and vanished.... It was spring and the flutes of Pan played everywhere. The radiance of the world's first morning shone undimmed. Life flowed and sang and danced, abundant and untamed. It bathed the mountains and that sky of stainless blue. It bathed him too.
For as he ran with wild and leaping strides, he did not run away from the figure. He took the direction straight toward the spot where the stranger still stood motionless as a tree. So close he passed him that he must almost have brushed his very shoulder. He did not see him. The last thing the Irishman noted was that in his violence the man had dropped the yellow bashlik from his head.
I went out to him and invited him into our poor tent, where he occupied the seat of honour, a maize sack. He might be forty years old, looked merry and jovial, but also pale and tired. When he took off his long red cloak and his bashlik, he appeared in a splendid dress of yellow Chinese silk, and his boots were of green velvet.
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