What now remained for the hunter? He had not even a dagger at his girdle—flight would have been useless. As if by the anger of fate, not a single thick tree was near him—only one dry branch arose from the oak against which he had leaned; and Verkhóffsky threw himself on it as the only means of avoiding destruction. Hardly had he time to clamber an arschine and a half6 from the ground, when the boar, enraged to fury, struck the branch with his tusks—it cracked from the force of the blow and the weight which was supported by it.... It was in vain that Verkhóffsky tried to climb higher—the bark was covered with ice—his hands slipped—he was sliding downwards; but the beast did not quit the tree—he gnawed it—he attacked it with his sharp tusks a tchétverin below the feet of the hunter. Every instant Verkhóffsky expected to be sacrificed, and his voice died away in the lonely space in vain. No, not in vain! The sound of a horse's hoofs was heard close at hand, and Ammalát Bek galloped up at full speed with uplifted sabre. Perceiving a new enemy, the wild-boar turned at him, but a sideway leap of the horse decided the battle—a blow from Ammalát hurled him on the earth.
The rescued Colonel hurried to embrace his friend, but the latter was slashing, mangling, in a fit of rage, the slain beast. "I accept not unmerited thanks," he answered at length, turning from the Colonel's embrace. "This same boar gored before my eyes a Bek of Tabasóran, my friend, when he, having missed him, had entangled his foot in the stirrup. I burned with anger when I saw my comrade's blood, and flew in pursuit of the boar. The closeness of the wood prevented me from following his track; I had quite lost him; and God has brought me hither to slay the accursed brute, when he was on the point of sacrificing a yet nobler victim—you, my benefactor."
"Now we are quits, dear Ammalát. Do not talk of past events. This day our teeth shall avenge us on this tusked foe. I hope you will not refuse to taste the forbidden meat, Ammalát?"
"Not I! nor to wash it down with champagne, Colonel. Without offence to Mahomet, I had rather strengthen my soul with the foam of the wine, than with the water of the true believer."
The hunt now turned to the other side. From afar were heard cries and hallooing, and the drums of the Tartars in the chase. From time to time shots rang through the air. A horse was led up to the Colonel: and he, feasting his sight with the boar, which was almost cut in two, patted Ammalát on the shoulder, crying "A brave blow!"
"In that blow exploded my revenge," answered the Bek; "and the revenge of an Asiatic is heavy."
"You have seen, you have witnessed," replied the Colonel, "how injury is avenged by Russians—that is, by Christians; let this be not a reproach, but—a lesson to you."
And they both galloped off towards the Line.
Ammalát was remarkably absent—sometimes he did not answer at all—at others, he answered incoherently to the questions of Verkhóffsky, by whom he rode, gazing abstractedly around him. The Colonel, thinking that, like an eager hunter, he was engrossed by the sport, left him, and rode forward. At last, Ammalát perceived him whom he was so impatiently expecting, his hemdjék, Saphir Ali, flew to meet him, covered with mud, and mounted on a smoking horse. With cries of "Aleikoúm Selam," they both jumped off their horses, and were immediately locked in each other's embrace.
"And so you have been there—you have seen her—you have spoken to her?" cried Ammalát, tearing off his kaftán, and choking with agitation. "I see by your face that you bring good news; here is my new tchoukhá7 for you for that. Does she live? Is she well? Does she love me as before?"
"Let me recollect myself," answered Saphir Ali. "Let me take breath. You have put so many questions, and I myself are charged with so many commissions, that they are crowding together like old women at the door of the mosque, who have lost their shoes. First, at your desire, I have been to Khounzákh. I crept along so softly, that I did not scare a single thrush by the road. Sultan Akhmet Khan is well, and at home. He asked about you with great anxiety, shook his head, and enquired if you did not want a spindle to dry the silk of Derbénd. The khánsha sends you tchokh selammóum, (many compliments,) and as many sweet cakes. I threw them away, the confounded things, at the first resting-place. Soúrkhai-Khan, Noutzal-Khan"——
"The devil take them all! What about Seltanetta?"
"Aha! at last I have touched the chilblain of your heart. Seltanetta, my dear Ammalát, is as beautiful as the starry sky; but in that heaven I saw no light, until I conversed about you. Then she almost threw herself on my neck when we were left alone together, and I explained the cause of my arrival. I gave her a camel-load of compliments from you—told her that you were almost dead with love—poor fellow!--and she burst into tears!"
"Kind, lovely soul! What did she tell you to say to me?"
"Better ask what she did not. She says that, from the time that you left her, she has never rejoiced even in her dreams; that the winter snow has fallen on her heart, and that nothing but a meeting with her beloved, like a vernal sun, can melt it.... But if I were to continue to the end of her messages, and you were to wait to the end of my story, we should both reach Derbénd with grey beards. Spite of all this, she almost drove me away, hurrying me off, lest you should doubt her love!"
"Darling of my soul! you know not—I cannot explain what bliss it is to be with thee, what torment to be separated from thee, not to see thee!"
"That is exactly the thing, Ammalát; she grieves that she cannot rejoice her eyes with a sight of him whom she never can be weary of gazing at. 'Is it possible,' she says, 'that he cannot come but for one little day, for one short hour, one little moment?'"
"To look on her, and then die, I would be content!"
"Ah, when you behold her, you will wish to live. She is become quieter than she was of old; but even yet she is so lively, that when you see her your blood sparkles within you."
"Did you tell her why it is not in my power to do her will, and to accomplish my own passionate desire?"
"I related such tales that you would have thought me the Shah of Persia's chief poet. Seltanetta shed tears like a fountain after rain. She does nothing else but weep."
"Why, then, reduce her to despair? 'I cannot now' does not mean 'it is for ever impossible.' You know what a woman's heart is, Saphir Ali: for them the end of hope is the end of love."
"You sow words on the wind, djanníon (my soul.) Hope, for lovers, is a skein of worsted—endless. In cool blood, you do not even trust your eyes; but fall in love, and you will believe in ghosts. I think that Seltanetta would hope that you could ride to her from your coffin—not only from Derbénd."
"And how is Derbénd better than a coffin to me? Does not my heart feel its decay, without power to escape it? Here is only my corpse: my soul is far away."
"It seems that your senses often take the whim of walking I know not where, dear Ammalát. Are you not well at Verkhóffsky's—free and contented? beloved as a younger brother, caressed like a bride? Grant that Seltanetta is lovely: there are not many Verkhóffskys. Cannot you sacrifice to friendship a little part of love?"
"Am not I then doing so, Saphir Ali? But if you knew how much it costs me! It is as if I tore my heart to pieces. Friendship is a lovely thing, but it cannot fill the place of love."
"At least, it can console us for love—it can relieve it. Have you spoken about this to the Colonel?"
"I
Rather less than an English yard.
The Tartars have an invariable custom, of taking off some part of their dress and giving it to the bearer of good news.
