Rostov was particularly struck by the beauty of a small thoroughbred, slender, black and tan ***** of Ilagin’s, with muscles like steel, a delicate nose, and prominent black eyes. He had heard of the sporting qualities of Ilagin’s dogs, and in that handsome ***** he saw a rival of his Milka.
In the middle of a sedate conversation about the crops of the year, started by Ilagin, Nikolay pointed out the black and tan *****.
“You have a fine ***** there！” he said, in a careless tone. “Is she clever？”
“That one？ Yes, she’s a good beast—she can catch a hare,” Ilagin said indifferently of his black and tan Yerza, a ***** for whom he had a year before given a neighbour three families of house-serfs. “So they don’t brag of their thrashing, count,” he went on, taking up their previous conversation. And feeling it only polite to repay the young count’s compliment, Ilagin scanned his dogs, and pitched on Milka, whose broad back caught his eye.
“That’s a good black and tan you have there—a fine one！” he said.
“Yes, she’s all right, she can run,” answered Nikolay. “Oh, if only a good big hare would run into the field, I would show you what she’s like！” he thought, and turning to his groom, he said he would give a rouble to any one who would unearth a hare.
“I can’t understand,” Ilagin went on, “how it is other sportsmen are so envious over game and dogs. I will tell you for myself, count. I enjoy hunting, as you know; the chase in such company…what could be more delightful” （he doffed his beaver cap again to Natasha）; “but this reckoning up of the skins one has carried off—I don’t care about that.”
“Oh no！”
“Nor could I be chagrined at my dog’s being outdone by another man’s—all I care about is the chase itself, eh, count？ And so I consider…”
“Oh,…ho…ho,” sounded at that moment in a prolonged call from one of the grooms. He was standing on a knoll in the stubble with his whip held up, and he called once more, “O…ho…aho！” （This call, and the lifted whip, meant that he saw a hare squatting before him.）
“Ah, he has started a hare, I fancy,” said Ilagin carelessly. “Well, let us course it, count！”
“Yes, we must…but what do you say, together？” answered Nikolay, looking intently at Yerza and the uncle’s red Rugay, the two rivals against whom he had never before had a chance of putting his dogs. “What if they outdo my Milka from the first？” he thought, riding by the uncle and Ilagin towards the hare.
“Is it full-grown？” asked Ilagin, going up to the groom who had started it, and looking about him with some excitement, as he whistled to his Yerza.… “And you, Mihail Nikanoritch？” he said to the uncle.
The uncle rode on, looking sullen.
“What’s the use of my competing with you？ Why, your dogs—you have paid a village for each of them; they’re worth thousands. You try yours against each other, and I’ll look on！”
“Rugay！ Hey, hey,” he shouted. “Rugayushka！” he added, involuntarily expressing his tenderness, and the hope he put in the red dog by this affectionate diminutive. Natasha saw and felt the emotion concealed by the two elderly men and by her brother, and was herself excited by it. The groom on the knoll was standing with his whip lifted; the gentlemen rode up to him at a walking pace; the pack were on the rim of the horizon, moving away from the hare; the rest of the hunting party too were riding away. Everything was done slowly and deliberately.
