become, Ammalát! Your horse is not a horse, your gun is not a gun: it is a pleasure to look at you; and this is true. Let me look at your dagger, my friend. Surely this is the Koubatchín mark upon the blade."
"No, the Kizliár mark," replied Ammalát, quietly unbuckling the dagger-belt from his waist; "and look at the blade. Wonderful! it cuts a nail in two like a candle. On this side is the maker's name; there—read it yourself: Alióusta—Kóza—Nishtshekói." And while he spoke, he twirled the naked blade before the eyes of the greedy Lezghín, who wished to show that he knew how to read, and was decyphering the complicated inscription with some difficulty. But suddenly the dagger gleamed like lightning.... Ammalát, seizing the opportunity, struck Shermadán with all his might on the head; and so fierce was the blow, that the dagger was stopped by the teeth of the lower jaw. The corpse fell heavily on the grass. Keeping my eyes upon Ammalát, I followed his example, and with my pistol shot the robber who was next me, and had hold of my horse's bridle. This was to the others a signal for flight; the rascals vanished; for the death of their Ataman dissolved the knot of the leash which bound them together. Whilst Ammalát, after the oriental fashion, was stripping the dead of their arms, and tying together the reins of the abandoned horses, I lectured him on his dissembling and making a false oath to the robber. He lifted up his head with astonishment: "You are a strange man, Colonel!" he replied. "This rascal has done an infinity of harm to the Russians, by secretly setting fire to their stacks of hay, or seizing and carrying straggling soldiers and wood-cutters into slavery. Do you know that he would have tyrannized over us—or even tortured us, to make us write more movingly to our kinsmen, to induce them to pay a larger ransom?"
"It may be so, Ammalát, but to lie or to swear an oath, either in jest or to escape misfortune, is wrong. Why could we not have thrown ourselves directly at the robbers, and have begun as you finished?"
"No, Colonel, we could not. If I had not entered into conversation with the Ataman, we should have been riddled with balls at the first movement. Moreover, I know that pack right well: they are brave only in the presence of their Ataman, and it was with him it was necessary to begin!"
I shook my head. The Asiatic cunning, though it had saved my life, could not please me. What confidence can I have in people accustomed to sport with their honour and their soul? We were about to mount our horses, when we heard a groan from the mountaineer who had been wounded by me. He came to himself, raised his head, and piteously besought us not to leave him to be devoured by the beasts of the forest. We both hastened to assist the poor wretch; and what was Ammalát's astonishment when he recognized in him one of the noúkers of Sultan Akhmet Khan of Avár. To the question how he happened to be one of a gang of robbers, he replied: "Shairán tempted me: the Khan sent me into Kemék, a neighbouring village, with a letter to the famous Hakím (Doctor) Ibrahim, for a certain herb, which they say removes every ailment, as easily as if it were brushed away with the hand. To my sorrow, Shermadán met me in the way! He teazed me, saying, 'Come with me, and let us rob on the road. An Armenian is coming from Kouba with money.' My young heart could not resist this ... oh, Allah-il-Allah! He hath taken my soul from me!"
"They sent you for physic, you say," replied Ammalát: "why, who is sick with you?"
"Our Khanóum Seltanetta is dying: here is the writing to the leech about her illness:" with these words he gave Ammalát a silver tube, in which was a small piece of paper rolled up. Ammalát turned as pale as death; his hands shook—his eyes sank under his eyebrows when he had read the note: with a broken voice he uttered detached words. "Three nights—and she sleeps not, eats not—delirious!--her life is in danger—save her! O God of righteousness—and I am idling here—leading a life of holidays—and my soul's soul is ready to quit the earth, and leave me a rotten corse! Oh that all her sufferings could fall on my head! and that I could lie in her coffin, if that would restore her to health. Sweetest and loveliest! thou art fading, rose of Avár, and destiny has stretched out her talons over thee. Colonel," he cried at length, seizing my hand, "grant my only, my solemn prayer—let me but once more look on her!"——
"On whom, my friend?"
"On my Seltanetta—on the daughter of the Khan of Avár—whom I love more than my life, than my soul! She is ill, she is dying—perhaps dead by this time—while I am wasting words—and I could not receive into my heart her last word—her last look—could not wipe away the icy tear of death! Oh, why do not the ashes of the ruined sun fall on my head—why will not the earth bury me in its ruins!"
He fell on my breast, choking with grief, in a tearless agony, unable to pronounce a word.
This was not a time for accusations of insincerity, much less to set forth the reasons which rendered it unadvisable for him to go among the enemies of Russia. There are circumstances before which all reasons must give way, and I felt that Ammalát was in such circumstances. On my own responsibility I resolved to let him go. "He that obliges from the heart, and speedily, twice obliges," is my favourite proverb, and best maxim. I pressed in my embrace the unhappy Tartar, and we mingled our tears together.
"My friend Ammalát," said I, "hasten where your heart calls you. God grant that you may carry thither health and recovery, and bring back peace of mind! A happy journey!"
"Farewell, my benefactor," he cried, deeply touched, "farewell, and perhaps for ever! I will not return to life, if Allah takes from me my Seltanetta. May God keep you!"
He took the wounded Aváretz to the Hakím Ibrahim, received the medicinal herb according to the Khan's prescription, and in an hour Ammalát Bek, with four noúkers, rode out of Derbénd.
And so the riddle is guessed—he loves. This is unfortunate, but what is yet worse, he is beloved in return. I fancy, my love, that I see your astonishment. "Can that be a misfortune to another, which to you is happiness?" you ask. A grain of patience, my soul's angel! The Khan, the father of Seltanetta, is the irreconcilable foe of Russia, and the more so because, having been distinguished by the favour of the Czar, he has turned a traitor; consequently a marriage is possible only on condition of Ammalát's betraying the Russians, or in case of the Khan's submission and pardon—both cases being far from probable. I myself have experienced misery and hopelessness in love; I have shed many tears on my lonely pillow; often have I thirsted for the shade of the grave, to cool my anguished heart! Can I, then, help, pitying this youth, the object of my disinterested regard, and lamenting his hopeless love? But this will not build a bridge to good-fortune; and I therefore think, that if he had not the ill-luck to be beloved in return, he would by degrees forget her.
"But," you say, (and methinks I hear your silvery voice, and am revelling in your angel's smile,) "but circumstances may change for them, as they have changed for us. Is it possible that misfortune alone has the privilege of being eternal in the world?"
I do not dispute this, my beloved, but I confess with a sigh that I am in doubt. I even fear for them and for ourselves. Destiny smiles before us, hope chaunts sweet music—but destiny is a sea—hope but a sea-syren; deceitful is the calm of the one, fatal are the promises of the other. All appears to aid our union—but are we yet together? I know not why, lovely Mary, but a chill penetrates my breast, amid the warm fountains of future bliss, and the idea of our meeting has lost its distinctness. But all this will pass away, all will change into happiness, when I press your hand to my lips, your heart to mine. The rainbow shines yet brighter on the dark field of the cloud, and the happiest moments of life are but the anticipations of sorrow.
CHAPTER VIII
Ammalát knocked up two horses, and left two of his noúkers on the road, so that at the end of the second day he was not far from Khounzákh. At each stride his impatience grew stronger, and with each stride increased his fear of not finding his beloved amongst the living.
