"Nicholas, what a fine dog Trunila is! He knew me," said Natasha,referring to her favorite hound.

　　"In the first place, Trunila is not a 'dog,' but a harrier," thoughtNicholas, and looked sternly at his sister, trying to make her feelthe distance that ought to separate them at that moment. Natashaunderstood it.

　　"You mustn't think we'll be in anyone's way, Uncle," she said."We'll go to our places and won't budge."

　　"A good thing too, little countess," said "Uncle," "only mind youdon't fall off your horse," he added, "because- that's it, come on!-you've nothing to hold on to."

　　The oasis of the Otradnoe covert came in sight a few hundred yardsoff, the huntsmen were already nearing it. Rostov, having finallysettled with "Uncle" where they should set on the hounds, and havingshown Natasha where she was to stand- a spot where nothing couldpossibly run out- went round above the ravine.

　　"Well, nephew, you're going for a big wolf," said "Uncle." "Mind anddon't let her slip!"

　　"That's as may happen," answered Rostov. "Karay, here!" heshouted, answering "Uncle's" remark by this call to his borzoi.Karay was a shaggy old dog with a hanging jowl, famous for havingtackled a big wolf unaided. They all took up their places.

　　The old count, knowing his son's ardor in the hunt, hurried so asnot to be late, and the hunstmen had not yet reached their places whenCount Ilya Rostov, cheerful, flushed, and with quivering cheeks, droveup with his black horses over the winter rye to the place reserved forhim, where a wolf might come out. Having straightened his coat andfastened on his hunting knives and horn, he mounted his good, sleek,well-fed, and comfortable horse, Viflyanka, which was turning gray,like himself. His horses and trap were sent home. Count Ilya Rostov,though not at heart a keen sportsman, knew the rules of the hunt well,and rode to the bushy edge of the road where he was to stand, arrangedhis reins, settled himself in the saddle, and, feeling that he wasready, looked about with a smile.

　　Beside him was Simon Chekmar, his personal attendant, an oldhorseman now somewhat stiff in the saddle. Chekmar held in leash threeformidable wolfhounds, who had, however, grown fat like their masterand his horse. Two wise old dogs lay down unleashed. Some hundredpaces farther along the edge of the wood stood Mitka, the count'sother groom, a daring horseman and keen rider to hounds. Before thehunt, by old custom, the count had drunk a silver cupful of mulledbrandy, taken a snack, and washed it down with half a bottle of hisfavorite Bordeaux.

　　He was somewhat flushed with the wine and the drive. His eyes wererather moist and glittered more than usual, and as he sat in hissaddle, wrapped up in his fur coat, he looked like a child taken outfor an outing.