tops of the Khan's tower arose before him. His eyes grew dark. "Shall I meet there life or death?" he whispered to himself, and arousing a desperate courage, he urged his horse to a gallop.
He came up with a horseman completely armed: another horseman rode out of Khounzákh to meeting, and hardly did they perceive one another when they put their horses to full speed, rode up to each other, leaped down upon the earth, and suddenly drawing their swords, threw themselves with fury upon each other without uttering a word, as if blows were the customary salutation of travellers. Ammalát Bek, whose passage they intercepted along the narrow path between the rocks, gazed with astonishment on the combat of the two adversaries. It was short. The horseman who was approaching the town fell on the stones, bedewing them with blood from a gash which laid open his skull; and the victor, coolly wiping his blade, addressed himself to Ammalát: "Your coming is opportune: I am glad that destiny has brought you in time to witness our combat. God, and not I, killed the offender; and now his kinsmen will not say that I killed my enemy stealthily from behind a rock, and will not raise upon my head the feud of blood."
"Whence arose your quarrel with him?" asked Ammalát: "why did you conclude it with such a terrible revenge?"
"This Kharám-Záda," answered the horseman, "could not agree with me about the division of some stolen sheep, and in spite he killed them all so that nobody should have them ... and he dared to slander my wife. He had better have insulted my father's grave, or my mother's good name, than have touched the reputation of my wife! I once flew at him with my dagger, but they parted us: we agreed to fight at our first encounter, and Allah has judged between us! The Bek is doubtless riding to Khounzákh—surely on a vizit to the Khan?" added the horseman.
Ammalát, forcing his horse to leap over the dead body which lay across the road, replied in the affirmative.
"You go not at a fit time, Bek—not at all at a fit time."
All Ammalát's blood rushed to his head. "Why, has any misfortune happened in the Khan's house?" he enquired, reining in his horse, which he had just before lashed with the whip to force him faster to Khounzákh.
"Not exactly a misfortune, his daughter Seltanetta was severely ill, and now"——
"Is dead?" cried Ammalát, turning pale.
"Perhaps she is dead—at least dying. As I rode past the Khan's gate, there arose a bustling, crying, and yelling of women in the court, as if the Russians were storming Khounzákh. Go and see—do me the favour"——
But Ammalát heard no more, he dashed away from the astounded Ouzdén; the dust rolled like smoke from the road, which seemed to be set on fire by the sparks from the horse's hoofs. Headlong he galloped through the winding streets, flew up the hill, bounded from his horse in the midst of the Khan's court-yard, and raced breathlessly through the passages to Seltanetta's apartment, overthrowing and jostling noúkers and maidens, and at last, without remarking the Khan or his wife, pushed himself to the bed of the sufferer, and fell, almost senseless, on his knees beside it.
The sudden and noisy arrival of Ammalát aroused the sad society present. Seltanetta, whose existence death was already overpowering, seemed as if awakening from the deep forgetfulness of fever; her cheeks flushed with a transient colour, like that on the leaves of autumn before they fall: in her clouded eye beamed the last spark of the soul. She lad been for several hours in a complete insensibility; she was speechless, motionless, hopeless. A murmur of anger from the bystanders, and a loud exclamation from the stupefied Ammalát, seemed to recall the departing spirit of the sick, she started up—her eyes sparkled.... "Is it thou—is it thou?" she cried, stretching, forth her arms to him: "praise be to Allah! now I am contented, now I am happy," she added, sinking back on the pillow. Her lips wreathed into a smile, her eyelids closed, and again she sank into her former insensibility.
The agonized Asiatic paid no attention to the questions of the Khan, or the reproaches of the Khánsha: no person, no object distracted his attention from Seltanetta—nothing could arouse him from his deep despair. They could hardly lead him by force from the sick chamber; he clung to the threshold, he wept bitterly, at one moment praying for the life of Seltanetta, at another accusing heaven of her illness! Terrible, yet moving, was the grief of the fiery Asiatic.
Meanwhile, the appearance of Ammalát had produced a salutary influence on the sick girl. What the rude physicians of the mountains were unable to accomplish, was effected by his arrival. The vital energy, which had been almost extinguished, needed some agitation to revivify its action; but for this she must have perished, not from the disease, which had been already subdued, but from languor—as a lamp, not blown out by the wind, but failing for lack of air. Youth at length gained the victory; the crisis was past, and life again arose in the heart of the sufferer. After a long and quiet slumber, she awoke unusually strengthened and refreshed. "I feel myself as light, mother," she cried, looking gaily around her, "as if I were made wholly of air. Ah, how sweet it is to recover from illness; it seems as if the walls were smiling upon me. Yet, I have been very ill—long ill. I have suffered much; but, thanks to Allah! I am now only weak, and that will soon pass away. I feel health rolling, like drops of pearl, through my veins. All the past seems to me a sort of dark vision. I fancied that I was sinking into a cold sea, and that I was parched with thirst: far away, methought, there hovered two little stars; the darkness thickened and thickened; I sank deeper, deeper yet. All at once it seemed as if some one called me by my name, and with a mighty hand dragged me from that icy, shoreless sea. Ammalát's face glanced before me, almost like a reality; the little stars broke into a lightning-flash, which writhed like a serpent to my heart: I remember no more!"
On the following day Ammalát was allowed to see the convalescent. Sultan Akhmet Khan, seeing that it was impossible to obtain a coherent answer from him while suspense tortured his heart, that heart which boiled with passion, yielded to his incessant entreaties. "Let all rejoice when I rejoice," he said, as he led his guest into his daughter's room. This had been previously announced to Seltanetta, but her agitation, nevertheless, was very great, when her eyes met those of Ammalát—Ammalát, so deeply loved, so long and fruitlessly expected. Neither of the lovers could pronounce a word, but the ardent language of their looks expressed a long tale, imprinted in burning letters on the tablet of their hearts. On the pale cheek of each other they read the traces of sorrow, the tears of separation, the characters of sleeplessness and grief, of fear and of jealousy. Entrancing is the blooming loveliness of an adored mistress; but her paleness, her languor, that is bewitching, enchanting, victorious! What heart of iron would not be melted by that tearful glance, which, without a reproach, says so tenderly to you, "I am happy, but I have suffered by thee and for thy sake?"
Tears dropped from Ammalát's eyes; but remembering at length that he was not alone, he mastered himself, and lifted up his head to speak; but his voice refused to pour itself in words, and with difficulty he faltered out, "We have not seen each other for a long time, Seltanetta!"
"And we were wellnigh parted for ever," murmured Seltanetta.
"For ever!" cried Ammalát, with a half reproachful voice. "And can you think, can you believe this? Is there not, then, another life, in which sorrow is unknown, and separation from our kinsmen and the beloved? If I were to lose the talisman of my life, with what scorn would I not cast away the rusty ponderous armour of existence! Why should I wrestle with destiny?"
"Pity, then, that I did not die!" answered Seltanetta, sportively. "You describe so temptingly the other side of the grave, that one would be eager to leap into it."
"Ah, no! Live, live long, for happiness, for—love!" Ammalát would have added, but he reddened, and was silent.
Little by little the roses of health spread over the cheeks of the maiden, now happy
