CHAPTER VII.

She did not find her mother at the chateau: Madame d'Urtis was

overjoyed to see her.

"Well, my lost sheep," she said, "you have come back again to the

fold."

"Yes," said Daphnè, sadly; "I am come back never to stray again. See,

here is my broken crook, and Daphnis will never come to cut me

another."

She told every thing to Madame d'Urtis. The Duchess did not know

whether to laugh or scold; so she got over the difficulty by

alternately doing both.

In the Chateau de Langevy, Hector continued firm in the presence of

his father, and even of his cousin. He told them every thing exactly

as it occurred; and spoke so enthusiastically and so sincerely, that

the old Baron was somewhat softened. Clotilde herself was touched,

and pled in Hector's behalf. But the old Baron was firm, and his

only answer was, "In eight days he will forget all about her. I am

astonished, Clotilde, to see you reason so absurdly."

"Oh, my dear uncle!" said Clotilde, "I believe that those who reason

the worst on such a subject are the most reasonable."

"I tell you again, in a week he will have changed his divinity--you

know that very well; or I don't see the use of your having such

beautiful eyes."

"Be sure of this, uncle," replied Clotilde, in a more serious voice,

"Hector will never love me, and besides," she added, relapsing into

gaiety once more, "I don't like to succeed to another; I agree with

Mademoiselle de Scuderi, that, in love, those queens are the

happiest who create kingdoms for themselves in undiscovered lands."

"You read romances, Clotilde, so I shall argue with you no longer

about the phantom you call love."

Hector took his father on the weak side.

"If I marry Mademioiselle Deshoulieres," he said, "I shall march

forward in the glorious career of arms; you have opened the way for

me, and I cannot fail of success under the instruction of the brave

Deshoulieres, whom Louvois honours with his friendship."

M. de Langevy put an end to the conversation by saying he would

consider--which seemed already a great step gained in favour of the

lovers.

On the next day's dawn, Hector was at the Cottage of the Vines.

"Alas, alas!" said the old woman, throwing open the window,

"the dear young lady is gone!"

"Gone!--you let her go!--but I will find her."

Hector ran to the Chateau d'Urtis. When he entered the park, he felt

he was too late, for he saw a carriage hurrying down the opposite

avenue. He rang the bell, and was shown in to the Duchess.

"'Tis you, Monsieur de Langevy," she said, sadly; "you come to see

Mademoiselle Deshoulieres. Think of her no more, for all is at an end

between you. On this earth you will meet no more, for in an hour she

will have left the world. She is gone, with her maid, to the Convent

of Val Chrétien."

"Gone!" cried Hector, nearly fainting.

"She has left a farewell for you in this letter." Hector took the

letter which the Duchess held to him, and grew deadly pale as he

read these lines:--

"Farewell, then! 'Tis no longer Daphnè who writes to you, but a

broken-hearted girl, who is to devote her life to praying for the

unhappy. I retire from the world with resignation. I make no

complaint: my two days' dream of happiness is gone. It was a

delicious eclogue--pure, sincere, and tender; but it is past--Adieu!"

Hector kissed the letter, and turned to the Duchess. "Have you a

horse, madam?" he said.

"What would you do with it?"

"I would overtake Mademoiselle Deshoulieres."

"You might overtake her, but you couldn't turn her."

"For mercy's sake, madam, a horse! Take pity on my misery."

The Duchess ordered a horse to be saddled, for she had opposed

Daphnè's design. "Go," she said, "and Heaven guide you both!"

He started at full gallop: he overtook the carriage in half an hour.

"Daphnè, you must go no further!" he said, holding out his hand to

the melancholy girl.

"'Tis you!" cried Daphnè, with a look of surprise and joy--soon

succeeded by deeper grief than ever.

"Yes, 'tis I! I," continued the youth, "who love you as my Daphnè,

my wife, for my father has listened at last to reason, and agrees to

all."

"But I also have listened to reason, and you know where I am going.

Leave me: you are rich--I am poor: you love me to-day--who can say if

you will love me to-morrow? We began a delightful dream, let us not

spoil it by a bad ending. Let our dream continue unbroken in its

freshness and romance. Our crooks are both broken; they have killed

two of our sheep; they have cut down the willows in the meadow. You

perceive that our bright day is over. The lady I saw yesterday

should be your wife. Marry her, then; and if ever, in your hours of

happiness, you wander on the banks of the Lignon, my shade will

appear to you. But _then_ it shall be with a smile!"

"Daphnè! Daphnè! I love you! I will never leave you! I will live or

die with you!"

* * * * *

It was fifty years after that day, that one evening, during a

brilliant supper in the Rue St. Dominique, Gentil Bernard, who was

the life of the company, announced the death of an original, who had

ordered a broken stick to be buried along with him.

"He is Monsieur de Langevy," said Fontenelle. "He was forced against

his inclination to marry the dashing Clotilde de Langevy, who eloped

so shamefully with one of the Mousquetaires. M. de Langevy had been

desperately attached to Bribri Deshoulieres, and this broken stick

was a crook they had cut during their courtship on the banks of the

Lignon. The Last Shepherd is dead, gentlemen--we must go to his

funeral."

"And what became of Bribri Deshoulieres?" asked a lady of the party.

"I have been told she died very young in a convent in the south,"

replied Fontenelle; "and the odd thing is, that, when they were

burying her, they found a crook attached to her horse-hair tunic."

* * * * *

THE FOUNDING OF THE BELL.

WRITTEN FOR MUSIC.

BY CHARLES MACKAY.

Hark! how the furnace pants and roars!

Hark! how the molten metal pours,

As, bursting from its iron doors,

It glitters in the sun!

Now through the ready mould it flows,

Seething and hissing as it goes,

And filling every crevice up

As the red vintage fills the cup:

_Hurra! the work is done_!

Unswathe him now. Take off each stay

That binds him to his couch of clay,

And let him struggle into day;

Let chain and pulley run,

With yielding crank and steady rope,

Until he rise from rim to cope,

In rounded beauty, ribb'd in strength,

Without a flaw in all his length:

_Hurra! the work is done_!

The clapper on his giant side

Shall ring no peal for blushing bride,

For birth, or death, or new-year-tide,

Or festival begun!

A nation's joy alone shall be

The signal for his revelry;

And for a nation's woes alone

His melancholy tongue shall moan:

_Hurra! the work is done_!

Borne on the gale, deep-toned and clear,

His long loud summons shall we hear,

When statesmen to their country dear

Their mortal race have run;

When mighty monarchs yield their breath,

And patriots sleep the sleep of death,

Then shall he raise his voice of gloom,

And peal a requiem o'er their tomb:

_Hurra! the work is done_!

Should foemen lift their haughty hand,

And dare invade us where we stand,

Fast by the altars of our land

We'll gather every one;

And he shall ring the loud alarm,

To call the multitudes to arm,

From distant field and forest brown,

And teeming alleys of the town:

_Hurra! the work is done_!

And as the solemn boom they hear,

Old men shall grasp the idle spear,

Laid by to rust for many a year,

And to the struggle run;

Young men shall leave their toils or books,

Or turn to swords their pruninghooks;

And maids have sweetest smiles for those

Who battle with their country's foes:

_Hurra! the work is done_!

And when the cannon's iron throat

Shall bear the news to dells remote,

And trumpet-blast resound the note,

That victory is won;

While down the wind the banner drops,

And bonfires blaze on mountain-tops,

His sides shall glow with fierce delight,

And ring glad peals from morn to night;

_Hurra! the work is done_!

But of such themes forbear to tell.

May never War awake this bell

To sound the tocsin or the knell!

Hush'd be the alarum gun!

Sheath'd be the sword! and may his voice

Call up the nations to rejoice

That War his tatter'd flag has furl'd,

And vanish'd from a wiser world!

_Hurra! the work is done_!

Still may he ring when struggles cease,

Still may he ring for joy's increase,

For progress in the arts of peace,

And friendly trophies won!

When rival nations join their hands,

When plenty crowns the happy lands,

When knowledge gives new blessings birth,

And freedom reigns o'er all the earth!

_Hurra! the work is done_!

* * * * *

AMMALÁT BEK.

A TRUE TALE OF THE CAUCASUS.

FROM THE RUSSIAN OF MARLÍNSKI.

CHAPTER III.

It was daybreak when Ammalát came to himself. Slowly, one by one,

his thoughts reassembled in his mind, and flitted to and fro as in a

mist, in consequence of his extreme weakness. He felt no pain at all

in his body, and his sensations were even agreeable; life seemed to

have lost its bitterness, and death its terror: in this condition he

would have listened with equal indifference to the announcement of

his recovery, or of his inevitable death. He had no wish to utter a

word, or to stir a finger. This half sleep, however, did not

continue long. At midday, after the visit of the physician, when the

attendants had gone to perform the rites of noon-tide prayer, when

their sleepy voices were still, and nought but the cry of the mullah

resounded from afar, Ammalát listened to a soft and cautious step

upon the carpets of the chamber. He raised his heavy eyelids, and

between their lashes appeared, approaching his bed, a fair,

black-eyed girl, dressed in an orange-coloured sarótchka, an

arkhaloúkh of cloth of gold with two rows of enamelled buttons,

and her long hair falling upon her shoulders. Gently she fanned

his face, and so pityingly looked at his wound that all his nerves

thrilled. Then she softly poured some medicine into a cup, and--he

could see no more--his eyelids sank like lead--he only caught with

his ear the rustling of her silken dress, like the sound of a parting

angel's wings, and all was still again. Whenever his weak senses strove

to discover the meaning of this fair apparition, it was so mingled with

the uncertain dreams of fever, that his first thought--his first

word--when he awoke, was, "'Tis a dream!" But it was no dream. This

beautiful girl was the daughter of the Sultan Akhmet Khan, and

sixteen years old. Among all the mountaineers, in general, the

unmarried women enjoy a great freedom of intercourse with the other

sex, without regard to the law of Mahomet. The favourite daughter of

the Khan was even more independent than usual. By her side alone he

forgot his cares and disappointments; by her side alone his eye met

a smile, and his heart a gleam of gayety. When the elders of Avár

discussed in a circle the affairs of their mountain politics, or

gave their judgment on right or wrong; when, surrounded by his

household, he related stories of past forays, or planned fresh

expeditions, she would fly to him like a swallow, bringing hope and

spring into his soul. Fortunate was the culprit during whose trial

the Khána came to her father! The lifted dagger was arrested in the

air; and not seldom would the Khan, when looking upon her, defer

projects of danger and blood, lest he should be parted from his

darling daughter. Every thing was permitted, every thing was

accessible, to her. To refuse her any thing never entered into the

mind of the Khan; and suspicion of any thing unworthy her sex and

rank, was as far from his thoughts as from his daughter's heart. But

who among those who surrounded the Khan, could have inspired her

with tender feelings? To bend her thoughts--to lower her sentiments

to any man inferior to her in birth, would have been an unheard-of

disgrace in the daughter of the humblest retainer; how much more,

then, in the child of a khan, imbued from her very cradle with the

pride of ancestry!--this pride, like a sheet of ice, separating her

heart from the society of those she saw. As yet no guest of her

father had ever been of equal birth to hers; at least, her heart had

never asked the question. It is probable, that her age--of careless,

passionless youth--was the cause of this; perhaps the hour of love

had already struck, and the heart of the inexperienced girl was

fluttering in her bosom. She was hurrying to clasp her father in her

embrace, when she had beheld a handsome youth falling like a corpse

at her feet. Her first feeling was terror; but when her father

related how and wherefore Ammalát was his guest, when the village

doctor declared that his wound was not dangerous, a tender sympathy

for the stranger filled her whole being. All night there flitted

before her the blood-stained guest, and she met the morning-beam, for

the first time, less rosy than itself. For the first time she had

recourse to artifice: in order to look on the stranger, she entered

his room as though to salute her father, and afterwards she slipped in

there at mid-day. An unaccountable, resistless curiosity impelled her

to gaze on Ammalát. Never, in her childhood, had she so eagerly longed

for a plaything; never, at her present age, had she so vehemently wished

for a new dress or a glittering ornament, as she desired to meet the eye

of the guest; and when at length, in the evening, she encountered his

languid, yet expressive gaze, she could not remove her look from the

black eyes of Ammalát, which were intently fixed on her. They seemed

to say--"Hide not thyself; star of my soul!" as they drank health

and consolation from her glances. She knew not what was passing

within her; she could not distinguish whether she was on the earth,

or floating in the air; changing colours flitted on her face. At

length she ventured, in a trembling voice, to ask him about his

health. One must be a Tartar--who accounts it a sin and an offence

to speak a word to a strange woman, who never sees any thing female

but the veil and the eye-brows--to conceive how deeply agitated was

the ardent Bek, by the looks and words of the beautiful girl

addressed so tenderly to him. A soft flame ran through his heart,

notwithstanding his weakness.

"Oh, I am very well, now," he answered, endeavouring to rise;

"so well, that I am ready to die, Seltanetta."

"Allah sakhla-sün!" (God protect you!) she replied. "Live, live long!

Would you not regret life?"

"At a sweet moment sweet is death, Seltanetta! But if I live a

hundred years, a more delightful moment than this can never be found!"

Seltanetta did not understand the words of the stranger; but she

understood his look--she understood the expression of his voice. She

blushed yet more deeply; and, making a sign with her hand that he

should repose, disappeared from the chamber.

Among the mountaineers there are many very skilful surgeons, chiefly

in cases of wounds and fractures; but Ammalát, more than by herb or

plaster, was cured by the presence of the charming mountain-maid.

With the agreeable hope of seeing her in his dreams, he fell asleep,

and awoke with joy, knowing that he should meet her in reality. His

strength rapidly returned, and with his strength grew his attachment

to Seltanetta.

Ammalát was married; but, as it often happens in the East, only from

motives of interest. He had never seen his bride before his marriage,

and afterwards found no attraction in her which could awake his

sleeping heart. In course of time, his wife became blind; and this

circumstance loosened still more a tie founded on Asiatic customs

rather than affection. Family disagreements with his father-in-law

and uncle, the Shamkhál, still further separated the young couple,

and they were seldom together. Was it strange, under the

circumstances, that a young man, ardent by nature, self-willed by

nature, should be inspired with a new love? To be with her was his

highest happiness--to await her arrival his most delightful

occupation. He ever felt a tremor when he heard her voice: each

accent, like a ray of the sun, penetrated his soul. This feeling

resembled pain, but a pain so delicious, that he would have prolonged

it for ages. Little by little the acquaintance between the young

people grew into friendship--they were almost continually together.

The Khan frequently departed to the interior of Avár for business of

government or military arrangements, leaving his guest to the care

of his wife, a quiet, silent woman. He was not blind to the

inclination of Ammalát for his daughter, and in secret rejoiced at it;

it flattered his ambition, and forwarded his military views; a

connexion with a Bek possessing the right to the Shamkhalát would

place in his hands a thousand means of injuring the Russians. The

Khánsha, occupied in her household affairs, not infrequently left Ammalát

for hours together in her apartments--as he was a relation; and

Seltanetta, with two or three of her personal attendants, seated on

cushions, and engaged in needlework, would not remark how the hours

flew by, conversing with the guest, and listening to his talk.

Sometimes Ammalát would sit long, long, reclining at the feet of his

Seltanetta, without uttering a word, and gazing at her dark,

absorbing eyes; or enjoying the mountain prospect from her window,

which opened towards the north, on the rugged banks and windings of

the roaring Ouzén, over which hung the castle of the Khan. By the

side of this being, innocent as a child, Ammalát forgot the desires

which she as yet knew not; and, dissolving in a joy, strange,

incomprehensible to himself, he thought not of the past nor of the

future; he thought of nothing--he could only feel; and indolently,

without taking the cup from his lips, he drained his draught of bliss,

drop by drop.

Thus passed a year.

The Avarétzes are a free people, neither acknowledging nor suffering

any power above them. Every Avarétz calls himself an Ouzdén; and if

he possesses a yezéer, (prisoner, slave,) he considers himself a

great man. Poor, and consequently brave to extravagance, excellent

marksmen with the rifle, they fight well on foot; they ride on

horseback only in their plundering expeditions, and even then but a

few of them. Their horses are small, but singularly strong; their

language is divided into a multitude of dialects, but is essentially

Lezghin for the Avártzi themselves are of the Lezghin stock. They

retain traces of the Christian faith, for it is not 120 years that

they have worshipped Mahomet, and even now they are but cool Moslems;

they drink brandy, they drink boozá, [16] and occasionally wine made

of grapes, but most ordinarily a sort of boiled wine, called among

them djápa. The truth of an Avarétz's word has passed into a proverb

among the mountains. At home, they are peaceful, hospitable, and

benevolent; they do not conceal their wives and daughters; for their

guest they are ready to die, and to revenge to the end of the

generation. Revenge, among them, is sacred; plundering, glory; and

they are often forced by necessity to brigandize.

[Footnote 16: A species of drink used by the Tartars, produced by

fermenting oats.]

Passing over the summit of Atála and Tkhezeróuk, across the crests of

Tourpi-Táou, in Kakhétia, beyond the river Alazán, they find

employment at a very low price; occasionally remaining two or three

days together without work, and then, at an agreement among

themselves, they rush like famished wolves, by night, into the

neighbouring villages, and, if they succeed, drive away the cattle,

carry off the women, make prisoners, and will often perish in an

unequal combat. Their invasions into the Russian limits ceased from

the time when Azlan Khan retained possession of the defiles which

lead into his territories from Avár. But the village of Khounzákh,

or Avár, at the eastern extremity of the Avár country, has ever

remained the heritage of the khans, and their command there is law.

Besides, though he has the right to order his noúkers to cut to

pieces with their kinjáls [17] any inhabitant of Khounzákh, nay,

any passer-by, the Khan cannot lay any tax or impost upon the people,

and must content himself with the revenues arising from his flocks,

and the fields cultivated by his karaváshes (slaves,) or yezéers

(prisoners.)

[Footnote 17: Dagger or poniard. These weapons are of various forms,

and generally much more formidable than would be suggested to an

European by the name dagger. The kinjál is used with wonderful force

and dexterity by the mountaineers, whose national weapon it may be

said to be; it is sometimes employed even as a missile. It is worn

suspended in a slanting direction in the girdle, not on the side,

but in front of the body.]

Without, however, taking any direct imposts, the khans do not

abstain from exacting dues, sanctified rather by force than custom.

For the Khan to take from their home a young man or a girl--to

command a waggon with oxen or buffaloes to transport his goods--to

force labourers to work in his fields, or to go as messengers, &c.,

is an affair of every day. The inhabitants of Khounzákh are not more

wealthy than the rest of their countrymen; their houses are clean,

and, for the most part, have two stories, the men are well made, the

women handsome, chiefly because the greater number of them are

Georgian prisoners. In Avár, they study the Arabic language, and the

style of their educated men is in consequence very flowery. The Harám

of the Khan is always crowded with guests and petitioners, who,

after the Asiatic manner, dare not present themselves without a

present--be it but a dozen of eggs. The Khan's noúkers, on the

number and bravery of whom he depends for his power, fill from

morning to night his courts and chambers, always with loaded pistols

in their belt, and daggers at their waist. The favourite Ouzdéns and

guests, Tchetchenétzes or Tartars, generally present themselves every

morning to salute the Khan, whence they depart in a crowd to the

Khánsha, sometimes passing the whole day in banqueting in separate

chambers, regaling even during the Khan's absence. One day there

came into the company an Ouzdén of Avár, who related the news that

an immense tiger had been seen not far off, and that two of their

best shots had fallen victims to its fierceness. "This has so

frightened our hunters," he said, "that nobody likes to attempt the

adventure a third time."

"I will try my luck," cried Ammalát, burning with impatience to show

his prowess before the mountaineers. "Only put me on the trail of the

beast!" A broad-shouldered Avarétz measured with his eye our bold

Bek from head to foot, and said with a smile: "A tiger is not like a

boar of Daghestán, Ammalát! His trail sometimes leads to death!"

"Do you think," answered he haughtily, "that on that slippery path

my head would turn, or my hand tremble? I invite you not to help me:

I invite you but to witness my combat with the tiger. I hope you will

then allow, that if the heart of an Avarétz is firm as the granite

of his mountains, the heart of a Daghestánetz is tenpered like his

famous _boulát_. [18] Do you consent?"

[Footnote 18: A species of highly tempered steel, manufactured, and

much prized, by the Tartars.]

The Avarétz was caught. To have refused would have been shameful:

so, clearing up his face, he stretched out his hand to Ammalát.

"I will willingly go with you," he replied. "Let us not delay--let

us swear in the mosque, and go to the fight together! Allah will

judge whether we are to bring back his skin for a housing, or

whether he is to devour us."

It is not in accordance with Asiatic manners, much less with Asiatic

customs, to bid farewell to the women when departing for a long or

even an unlimited period. This privilege belongs only to relations,

and it is but rarely that it is granted to a guest. Ammalát,

therefore, glanced with a sigh at the window of Seltanetta, and went

with lingering steps to the mosque. There, already awaited him the

elders of the village, and a crowd of curious idlers. By an ancient

custom of Avár, the hunters were obliged to swear upon the Koran,

that they would not desert one another, either in the combat with

the beast or in the chase; that they would not quit each other when

wounded; if fate willed that the animal should attack them, that

they would defend each other to the last, and die side by side,

careless of life; and that in any case they would not return without

the animal's skin; that he who betrayed this oath, should be hurled

from the rocks, as a coward and traitor. The moollah armed them, the

companions embraced, and they set out on their journey amid the

acclamations of the whole crowd. "Both, or neither!" they cried

after them. "We will slay him, or die!" answered the hunters.

A day had passed. A second had sunk below the snowy summits. The old

men had wearied their eyes in gazing from their roofs along the road.

The boys had gone far on the hills that crested the village, to meet

the hunters--but no tidings of them. Throughout all Khounzákh, at

every fireside, either from interest or idleness, they were talking

of this; but above all, Seltanetta was sad. At every voice in the

courtyard, at every sound on the staircase, all her blood flew to

her face, and her heart beat with anxiety. She would start up, and

run to the window or the door; and then, disappointed for the

twentieth time, with downcast eyes would return slowly to her

needlework, which, for the first time, appeared tiresome and endless.

At last, succeeding doubt, fear laid its icy hand upon the maiden's

heart. She demanded of her father, her brothers, the guests, whether

the wounds given by a tiger were dangerous?--was this animal far

from the villages? And ever and anon, having counted the moments,

she would wring her hands, and cry, "They have perished!" and

silently bowed her head on her agitated breast, while large tears

flowed down her fair face.

On the third day, it was clear that the fears of all were not idle.

The Ouzdén, Ammalát's companion to the chase, crawled with difficulty,

alone, into Khounzákh. His coat was torn by the claws of some wild

beast; he himself was as pale as death from exhaustion, hunger, and

fatigue. Young and old surrounded him with eager curiosity; and

having refreshed himself with a cup of milk and a piece of _tchourek_,

[19] he related as follows:--"On the same day that we left this place,

we found the track of the tiger. We discovered him asleep among the

thick hazels--may Allah keep me from them!"

[Footnote 19: "Tchourek," a kind of bread.]

Drawing lots, it fell to my chance to fire: I crept gently up, and

aiming well, I fired--but for my sorrow, the beast was sleeping with

his face covered by his paw; and the ball, piercing the paw, hit him

in the neck. Aroused by the report and by the pain, the tiger gave a

roar, and with a couple of bounds, dashed at me before I had time to

draw my dagger: with one leap, he hurled me on the ground, trode on

me with his hind feet, and I only know that at this moment there

resounded a cry, and the shot of Ammalát, and afterwards a deafening

and tremendous roar. Crushed by the weight, I lost sense and memory,

and how long I lay in this fainting fit, I know not.

"When I opened my eyes all was still around me, a small rain was

falling from a thick mist ... was it evening or morning? My gun,

covered with rust, lay beside me, Ammalát's not far off, broken in

two; here and there the stones were stained with blood ... but whose?

The tiger's or Ammalát's? How can I tell? Broken twigs lay around ...

the brute must have broken them in his mad boundings. I called on my

comrade as loudly as I could. No answer. I sat down, and shouted

again ... but in vain. Neither animal nor bird passed by. Many times

did I endeavour to find traces of Ammalát, either to discover him

alive, or to die upon his corpse--that I might avenge on the beast

the death of the brave man; but I had no strength. I wept bitterly:

why have I perished both in life and honour! I determined to await

the hour of death in the wilderness; but hunger conquered me. Alas!

thought I, let me carry to Khounzákh the news that Ammalát has

perished; let me at least die among my own people! Behold me, then;

I have crept hither like a serpent. Brethren, my head is before you:

judge me as Allah inclines your hearts. Sentence me to life; I will

live, remembering your justice: condemn me to death; your will be

done! I will die innocent, Allah is my witness: I did what I could!"

A murmur arose among the people, as they listened to the new comer.

Some excused, others condemned, though all regretted him. "Every one

must take care of himself," said some of the accusers: "who can say

that he did not fly? He has no wound, and, therefore, no proof ...

but that he has abandoned his comrade is most certain." "Not only

abandoned, but perhaps betrayed him," said others--"they talked not

as friends together!" The Khan's noúkers went further: they

suspected that the Ouzdén had killed Ammalát out of jealousy:

"he looked too lovingly on the Khan's daughter, but the Khan's

daughter found one far his superior in Ammalát."

Sultan Akhmet Khan, learning what the people were assembling about in

the street, rode up to the crowd. "Coward!" he cried with mingled

anger and contempt to the Ouzdén: "you are a disgrace to the name of

Avarétz. Now every Tartar may say, that we let wild beasts devour our

guests, and that we know not how to defend them! At least we know how

to avenge him: you have sworn upon the Koran, after the ancient

usage of Avár, never to abandon your comrade in distress, and if he

fall, not to return home without the skin of the beast ... thou hast

broken thine oath ... but we will not break our law: perish! Three

days shall be allowed thee to prepare thy soul; but then--if Ammalát

be not found, thou shalt be cast from the rock. You shall answer for

his head with your own!" he added, turning to his noúkers, pulling

his cap over his eyes and directing his horse towards his home.

Thirty mountaineers rushed in different directions from Khounzákh,

to search for at least the remains of the Bek of Bouináki. Among the

mountaineers it is considered a sacred duty to bury with honour

their kinsmen and comrades, and they will sometimes, like the heroes

of Homer, rush into the thickest of the battle to drag from the

hands of the Russians the body of a companion, and will fall in

dozens round the corpse rather than abandon it.

The unfortunate Ouzdén was conducted to the stable of the Khan; a

place frequently used as a prison. The people, discussing what had

happened, separated sadly, but without complaining, for the sentence

of the Khan was in accordance with their customs.

The melancholy news soon reached Seltanetta, and though they tried to

soften it, it struck terribly a maiden who loved so deeply.

Nevertheless, contrary to their expectation, she appeared tranquil;

she neither wept nor complained, but she smiled no more, and uttered

not a word. Her mother spoke to her; she heard her not. A spark from

her father's pipe burned her dress; she saw it not. The cold wind

blew upon her bosom; she felt it not. All her feelings seemed to

retire into her heart to torture her; but that heart was hidden from

the view, and nothing was reflected in her proud features. The

Khan's daughter was struggling with the girl: it was easy to see

which would yield first.

But this secret struggle seemed to choke Seltanetta: she longed to

fly from the sight of man, and give the reins to her sorrow.

"O heaven!" she thought; "having lost him, may I not weep for him?

All gaze on me, to mock me and watch my every tear, to make sport

for their malignant tongues. The sorrows of others amuse them, Sekina,"

she added, to her maid; "let us go and walk on the bank of the Ouzén."

At the distance of three _agátcha_ [20] from Khounzákh, towards the

west, are the ruins of an ancient Christian monastery, a lonely

monument of the forgotten faith of the aborigines.

[Footnote 20: "Agátcha," seven versts, a measure for riding--for the

pedestrian, the agátcha is four versts.]

The hand of time, as if in veneration, has not touched the church

itself, and even the fanaticism of the people has spared the

sanctuary of their ancestors. It stood entire amid the ruined cells

and falling wall. The dome, with its high pointed roof of stone, was

already darkened by the breath of ages: ivy covered with its tendrils

the narrow windows, and trees were growing in the crevices of the

stones. Within, soft moss spread its verdant carpet, and in the

sultriness a moist freshness breathed there, nourished by a fountain,

which, having pierced the wall, fell tinkling behind the stone altar,

and, dividing into silver ever-murmuring threads of pure water,

filtered among the pavement stones, and crept meandering away. A

solitary ray slanting through the window, flitted over the trembling

verdure, and smiled on the gloomy wall, like a child on its

grandame's knee. Thither Seltanetta directed her steps: there she

rested from the looks which so tormented her: all around was so still,

so soft, so happy; and all augmented but the more her sadness: the

light trembling on the wall, the twittering of the swallows, the

murmur of the fountain, melted into tears the load that weighed upon

her breast, and her sorrow dissolved into lamentation: Sekina went

to pluck the pears which grew in abundance round the church; and

Seltanetta could freely yield to nature.

But sudden, raising her head, she uttered an exclamation of surprise!

before her stood a well-made Avarétz, stained with blood and mire.

"Does not your heart, do not your eyes, O Seltanetta, recognize your

favourite?" No, but with a second glance she knew Ammalát; and

forgetting all but her joy, she threw herself on his neck, embraced

it with her arms, and long, long, gazed fixedly on the much-loved

face; and the fire of confidence, the fire of ecstasy, glimmered

through the still falling tears. Could then the impassioned Ammalát

contain his rapture? He clung like a bee to the rosy lips of

Seltanetta; he had heard enough for his happiness; he was now at the

summit of bliss; the lovers had not yet said a word of their love,

but they already understood each other. "And dost thou then, angel,"

added Ammalát, when Seltanetta, ashamed of the kiss, withdrew from

his embrace: "dost thou love me?"

"Allah protect me!" replied the innocent girl, lowering her eyelashes,

but not her eyes: "Love! that is a terrible word. Last year, going

into the street, I saw them pelting a girl with stones: terrified I

rushed hone, but nowhere could I hide myself: the bloody image of

the sinner was everywhere before me, and her groan yet rings

unceasingly in my ears. When I asked why they had so inhumanly put

to death that unhappy creature, they answered, that she loved a

certain youth!"

"No, dearest, it was not because she loved one, but that she loved

not one alone--because she betrayed some one, it may be, that they

killed her."

"What means '_betrayed_,' Ammalát? I understand it not."

"Oh, God grant that you may never learn what it is to betray; that

you may never forget me for another!"

"Ah, Ammalát, within these four days I have learned how bitter to me

was separation! For a long time I have not seen my brothers Noutsál

and Soúrkha, and I meet them with pleasure; but without them I do not

grieve: without you I wish not to live!"

"For thee I am ready to die, my morning-star: to thee I give my

soul--not only life, my beloved!"

The sound of footsteps interrupted the lovers' talk: it was

Seltanetta's attendant. All three went to congratulate the Khan, who

was consoled, and unaffectedly delighted.

Ammalát related in a few words how the affair had occurred.

"Hardly had I remarked that my comrade had fallen when I fired at

the beast, flying, with a ball which broke his jaw. The monster with

a terrific roar began to whirl round, to leap, to roll, sometimes

darting towards me, and then again, tormented by the agony, bounding

aside. At this moment, striking him with the butt of my gun on the

skull, I broke it. I pursued him a long time as soon as he betook

himself to flight, following him by his bloody track: the day began

to fail, and when I plunged my dagger into the throat of the fallen

tiger, dark night had fallen upon the earth. Would I or not, I was

compelled to pass the night with the rocks for a bed-chamber, and the

wolves and jackals for companions. The morning was dark and rainy;

the clouds around my head poured their waters on me like a river. At

ten paces before my face nothing could be seen. Without a view of the

sun, ignorant of the country, in vain I wandered round and round:

weariness and hunger overwhelmed me. A partridge which I shot with my

pistol restored my strength for a while; but I could not find my way

out of my rocky grave. In the evening the only sounds I could hear

were the murmur of water falling from a cliff, or the whistling of

the eagles' wings as they flew through the clouds; but at night the

audacious jackals raised, three paces off, their lamentable song.

This morning the sun rose brightly, and I myself arose more cheerful,

and directed my steps towards the east. I shortly afterwards heard a

cry and a shot: it was your messengers. Overcome by heat, I went to

drink the pure water of the fountain by the old mosque, and there I

met Seltanetta. Thanks be to you, and glory to God!"

"Glory to God, and honour to you!" exclaimed the Sultan, embracing

him. "But your courage has nearly cost us your life, and even that

of your comrade. If you had delayed a day, he would have been obliged

to dance the Sézghinka in the air. You have returned just in time.

Djemboulá't, a famous cavalier of Little Kabárda, has sent to invite

you to a foray against the Russians. I would willingly buy

beforehand your glory; as much as you won in your last battle. The

time is short; tomorrow's sun must see you ready."

This news was by no means unwelcome to Ammalát: he decided instantly;

answering, that he would go with pleasure. He felt sure that a

distinguished reputation as a cavalier would ensure him future

success.

But Seltanetta turned pale--bowing her head like a flower, when she

heard of this new and more cruel separation. Her look, as it dwelt

upon Ammalát, showed painful apprehension--the pain of prophetic

sorrow.

"Allah!" she mournfully exclaimed: "more forays, more slaughter.

When will blood cease to be shed in the mountains?"

"When the mountain torrents run milk, and the sugar-canes wave on the

snowy peaks!" said the Khan.

CHAPTER IV.

Wildly beautiful is the resounding Térek in the mountains of Dariál.

There, like a genie, borrowing his strength from heaven, he wrestles

with Nature. There bright and shining as steel, cutting through the

overshadowing cliff, he gleams among the rocks. There, blackening

with rage, he bellows and bounds like a wild beast, among the

imprisoning cliffs: he bursts, overthrows, and rolls afar their

broken fragments. On a stormy night, when the belated traveller,

enveloped in his furry boúrka, gazing fearfully around him, travels

along the bank which hangs over the torrent of Térek, all is terror

such as only a vivid imagination can conceive. With slow steps he

winds along, the rain-torrents stream around his feet, and tumble

upon his head from the rocks which frown above and threaten his

destruction. Suddenly the lightning flashes before his eyes--with

horror he beholds but a black cloud above him, below a yawning gulf,

beside him crags, and before him the roaring Térek. At one moment he

sees its wild and troubled waves raging like infernal spirits chased

by the archangel's brand. After them, with a shout as of laughter,

roll the huge stones. In another moment, the blinding flash is gone,

and he is plunged once more in the dark ocean of night: then bursts

the thunder-crash, jarring the foundations of the rocks, as though a

thousand mountains were dashed against each other, so deafeningly do

the echoes repeat the bellow of the heavens. Then a long-protracted

growl, as of massive oaks plucked up by their roots, or the crash of

bursting rocks, or the yell of the Titans as they were hurled

headlong into the abyss; it mingles with the war of the blast, and

the blast swells to a hurricane, and the rain pours down in torrents.

And again the lightning blinds him, and again the thunder, answering

from afar to the splinter-crash, deafens him. The terrified steed

rears, starts backward--the rider utters a short prayer.

But after this how softly smiles the morning--morn, in whose light

Térek glides, and ripples, and murmurs! The clouds, like a torn veil

whirling on the breeze, appear and vanish fitfully among the icy

peaks. The sunbeams discover jagged profiles of the summits on the

opposing mountain wall. The rocks glitter freshly from the rain. The

mountain-torrents leap through the morning mist; and the mists

themselves creep winding through the cliffs, even as the smoke from a

cottage chimney, then twine themselves like a turban round some

ancient tower, while Térek ripples on among the stones, curling as a

tired hound who seeks a resting-place.

In the Caucasus, it must be confessed, there are no waters in which

the mountains can worthily reflect themselves--those giants of

creation. There are no gentle rivers, no vast lakes; but Térek

receives in his stream the tribute of a thousand streamlets. Beneath

the further Caucasus, where the mountains melt into the plain, he

seems to flow calmly and gently, he wanders on in huge curves,

depositing the pebbles he has brought down from the hills. Further on,

bending to the north-west, the stream is still strong, but less noisy,

as though wearied with its fierce strugglings. At length, embraced

by the narrow gorge of Cape M. áloi (Little Kabárdi,) the river,

like a good Moslem, bending religiously to the east, and peacefully

spreading over the hated shore, gliding sometimes over beds of stone,

sometimes over banks of clay, falls, by Kizlár, into the basin of

the Caspian. There alone does it deign to bear boats upon its waters,

and, like a labourer, turn the huge wheels of floating mills. On its

right bank, among hillocks and thickets, are scattered the villages

(aoúle) of the Kabardínetzes, a tribe which we confound under one

name with the Tcherkéss, (Circassians,) who dwell beyond the Koubán,

and with the Tchetchenétzes much lower by the sea. These villages on

the bank are peaceful only in name, for in reality they are the

haunts of brigands, who acknowledge the Russian government only as

far as it suits their interest, capturing, as Russian subjects, from

the mountaineers, the plunder they seize in the Russian frontier.

Enjoying free passage on all sides, they inform those of the same

religion and the same way of thinking, of the movement of our troops,

and the condition of our fortresses; conceal them among themselves

when they are assembling for an incursion, buy their plunder at their

return, furnish them with Russian salt and powder, and not rarely

take themselves a part, secret or open, in their forays. It is

exceedingly irritating to see, even in full view of these

mountaineers, nations hostile to us boldly swim over the Térek, two,

three, or five men at a time, and in broad day set to work to rob;

it being useless to pursue them, as their dress has nothing to

distinguish them from the friendly tribes. On the opposite bank,

though apparently quite peaceable, and employing this as their excuse,

they fall, when in force, upon travellers, carry off cattle and men

when off their guard, slaughter them without mercy, or sell them

into slavery at a distance. To say the truth, their natural position,

between two powerful neighbours, of necessity compels them to have

recourse to these stratagems. Knowing that the Russians will not

pass to the other side of the river to protect them from the revenge

of the mountaineers, who melt away like snow at the approach of a

strong force, they easily and habitually, as well as from inevitable

circumstances, ally themselves to people of their own blood, while

they affect to pay deference to the Russians, whom they fear.

Indeed, there exists among them certain persons really devoted to the

Russians, but the greater number will betray even their own

countrymen for a bribe. In general, the morality of these peaceful

allies of ours is completely corrupted; they have lost the courage

of an independent people, and have acquired all the vices of

half-civilization. Among them an oath is a jest; treachery, their

glory; even hospitality, a trade. Each of them is ready to engage

himself to the Russians in the morning, as a kounák (friend), and at

night to guide a brigand to rob his new friend.

The left bank of the Térek is covered with flourishing stanítzas [21]

of the Kazáks of the Line, the descendants of the famous Zaporójetzes.

Among them is here and there a Christian village. These Kazáks are

distinguished from the mountaineers only by their unshaven heads: their

tools, dress, harness, manners--all are of the mountains. They like the

almost ceaseless war with the mountaineers; it is not a battle, but a

trial of arms, in which each party desires to gain glory by his

superiority in strength, valour, and address. Two Kazáks would not

fear to encounter four mountain horsemen, and with equal numbers

they are invariably victors. Lastly, they speak the Tartar language;

they are connected with the mountaineers by friendship and alliance,

their women being mutually carried off into captivity; but in the

field they are inflexible enemies. As it is not forbidden to make

incursions on the mountain side of the Térek, the brigands

frequently betake themselves thither by swimming the river, for the

chase of various kinds of game. The mountain brigands, in their turn,

frequently swim over the Térek at night, or cross it on bourdoúchs,

(skins blown up,) hide themselves in the reeds, or under a

projection of the bank, thence gliding through the thickets to the

road, to carry off an unsuspecting traveller, or to seize a woman,

as she is raking the hay. It sometimes happens that they will pass a

day or two in the vineyards by the village, awaiting a favourable

opportunity to fall upon it unexpectedly; and hence the Kazák of the

Line never stirs over his threshold without his dagger, nor goes

into the field without his gun at his back: he ploughs and sows

completely armed.

[Footnote 21: Villages of Kazáks.]

For some time past, the mountaineers had fallen in considerable

numbers only on Christian villages, for in the stanítzas the

resistance had cost them very dear. For the plundering of houses;

they approached boldly yet cunningly the Russian frontier, and on

such occasions they frequently escaped a battle. The bravest Ouzdéns

desire to meet with these affairs that they may acquire fame, which

they value even more than plunder.

In the autumn of the year 1819, the Kabardínetzes and Tchetchenétzes,

encouraged by the absence of the commander-in-chief, assembled to the

number of 1500 men to make an attack upon one of the villages beyond

the Térek, to seize it, carry off prisoners, and take the droves of

horses. The leader of the Kabardínetzes was the Prince (Kniázek)

Djenboulát. Ammalát Bek, who had arrived with a letter from Sultan

Akhmet Khan, was received with delight. They did not, indeed, assign

him the command of any division; but this arose from the

circumstance that with them there is no order of battle or gradation

of command; an active horse and individual courage secures the most

distinguished place in action. At first they deliberate how best to

begin the attack--how to repel the enemy; but afterwards they pay no

attention to plan or order, and chance decides the affair. Having

sent messengers to summon the neighbouring Ouzdéns, Djemboulát fixed

on a place of assembling; and immediately, on a signal agreed on,

from every height spread the cry, "Gharái, gharái!" (alarm,) and in

one hour the Tchetchenétzes and Kabardínetzes were assembling from

all sides. To avoid treason, no one but the leader knew where the

night-camp was to be, from which they where to cross the river. They

were divided into small bands, and were to go by almost invisible

paths to the peaceful village, where they were to conceal themselves

till night. By twilight, all the divisions were already mustered. As

they arrived, they were received by their countrymen with frank

embraces; but Djemboulát, not trusting to this, guarded the village

with sentinels, and proclaimed to the inhabitants, that whoever

attempted to desert to the Russians should be cut in pieces. The

greater part of the Ouzdéns took up their quarters in the sáklas of

their kounáks or relations; but Djemboulát and Ammalát, with the

best of the cavaliers, slept in the open air round a fire, when they

had refreshed their jaded horses. Djemboulát, wrapped in his boúrka,

was considering, with folded arms, the plan of the expedition; but

the thoughts of Ammalát were far from the battle-field: they were

flying, eagle-winged, to the mountains of Avar, and bitterly,

bitterly did he feel his separation. The sound of an instrument, the

mountain balaláika, (kanous,) accompanying a slow air, recalled him

from his reverie, and a Kabardínetz sung an ancient song.

"On Kazbék the clouds are meeting,

like the mountain eagle-flock;

up to them, along the rock,

Dash the wild Ouzdéns retreating;

Onward faster, faster fleeting,

Routed by the Russian brood.

Foameth all their track with blood."

"Fast behind the regiments yelling,

Lance and bayonet raging hot,

And the seed of death their shot.

On the mail the sabre dwelling

Gallop, steed! for far thy dwelling--

See! they fall--but distant still

Is the forest of the hill!"

"Russian shot our hearts is rending,

Falls the Mullah on his knee,

To the Lord of Light bows he,

To the Prophet he is bending:

Like a shaft his prayer ascending,

Upward flies to Allah's throne--

Il-Alláh! O save thine own!"

"Ah, despair!--What crash like thunder!

Lo! a sign from heaven above!

Lo! the forest seems to move

Crashes, murmurs, bursts asunder!

Lower, nearer, wonder! wonder!

Safe once more the Moslem bold

In their forest mountain-hold!"

"So it was in old times," said Djemboulát, with a smile, "when our

old men trusted more to prayer, and God oftener listened to them; but

now, my friends, there is a better hope--your valour! _Our_ omens are

in the scabbards of our shoóshkas, (sabres,) and we must show that we

are not ashamed of them. Harkye, Ammalát," he continued, twisting his

mustache, "I will not conceal from you that the affair may be warm. I

have just heard that Colonel K---- has collected his division; but

where he is, or how many troops he has, nobody knows."

"The more Russians there are the better," replied Ammalát, quietly;

"the fewer mistakes will be made."

"And the heavier will be the plunder."

"I care not for that. I seek revenge and glory."

"Glory is a good bird, when she lays a golden egg; but he that

returns with his toróks (straps behind the saddle) empty, is ashamed

to appear before his wife. Winter is near, and we must provide our

households at the expense of the Russians, that we may feast our

friends and allies. Choose your station, Ammalát Bek. Do you prefer

to advance in front to carry off the flocks, or will you remain with

me in the rear? I and the Abréks will march at a foot's pace to

restrain the pursuers."

"That is what I also intend. I will be where the greatest peril is.

But what are the Abréks, Djemboulát?"

"It is not easy to explain. You sometimes see several of our boldest

cavaliers take an oath, binding them for two or three years, or as

long as they like, never to mingle in games or gayeties, never to

spare their lives in battle, to give no quarter, never to pardon the

least offence in a brother or a friend, to seize the goods of others

without fear or scruple--in a word, to be the foes of all mankind,

strangers in their family, men whom any person may slay if he can;

in the village they are dangerous neighbours, and in meeting them

you must keep your hand on the trigger; but in war one can trust them."

[22]

"For what motive, or reason, can the Ouzdens make such an engagement?"

"Some simply to show their courage, others from poverty, a third

class from some misfortune. See, for instance, yonder tall Kabardínetz;

he has sworn to be an Abrék for five years, since his mistress

died of the small-pox. Since that year it would be as well to make

acquaintance with a tiger as with him. He has already been wounded

three times for blood-vengeance; but he cares not for that."

"Strange custom! How will he return from the life of an Abrék to a

peaceable existence?"

"What is there strange in this? The past glides from him as water

from the wild-duck. His neighbours will be delighted when he has

finished his term of brigandage. And he, after putting off Abrétchestva

(Abrékism) as a serpent sheds his skin, will become gentle

as a lamb. Among us, none but the avenger of blood remembers

yesterday. But the night is darkening. The mists are spreading over

Térek. It is time for the work."

Djemboulát whistled, and his whistle was repeated to all the

outposts of the camp. In a moment the whole band was assembled.

Several Ouzdéns joined from the neighbouring friendly villages.

After a short discussion as to the passage of the river, the band

moved in silence to the bank. Ammalát Bek could not but admire the

stillness, not only of the riders, but of their horses; not one of

them neighed or snorted, and they seemed to place their feet on the

ground with caution. They marched like a voiceless cloud, and soon

they reached the bank of Térek, which, making a winding at this spot,

formed a promontory, and from it to the opposite shore, extended a

pebbly shoal. The water over this bank was shallow and fordable;

nevertheless, a part of the detachment left the shore higher up, in

order to swim past the Kazáks, and, diverting their attention from

the principal passage, to cover the fording party. Those who had

confidence in their horses, leaped unhesitatingly from the bank,

while others tied to each fore-foot of their steeds a pair of small

skins, inflated with air like bladders; the current bore them on,

and each landed wherever he found a convenient spot. The

impenetrable veil of mist concealed all these movements. It must be

remarked, that along the whole line of the river is a chain of mayáks

(watch-towers) and a cordon of sentinels: on all the hills and

elevated spots are placed look-outs. On passing before them in the

daytime, may be seen on each hillock a pole, surmounted with a small

barrel. This is filled with pitch and straw, and is ready to be

lighted on the first alarm. To this pole is generally tied a Kazák's

horse, and by his side a sentinel. In the night, these sentinels are

doubled; but in spite of the precautions, the Tcherkéss, concealed

by the fog, and clothed in their boúrka, sometimes pass through the

line in small bodies, as water glides through a sieve. The same

thing happened on this occasion: perfectly acquainted with the

country, the Beláds, (guides) peaceable Tcherkéss, led each party,

and in profound silence avoided the hillocks.

[Footnote 22: This is exactly the Berserkir of the ancient Northmen.

Examples of this frantic courage are not rare among the Asiatics.]

In two places only had the brigands, to break through the line of

watch-fires which might have betrayed them, resolved to kill the

sentinels. Against one picket, Djemboulát proceeded himself, and he

ordered another Bek to creep up the bank, pass round to the rear of

the picket, count a hundred, and then to strike fire with a flint

and steel several times. It was said and done. Just lifting his head

above the edge of the bank, Djemboulát saw a Kazák slumbering with

the match in his hand, and holding his horse by the bridle. As soon

as the clicking struck his ear, the sentinel started, and turned an

anxious look on the river. Fearing that the sentinel did not remark

him, Djemboulát threw up his cap, and again crouched down behind the

bank. "Accursed duck!" said the Donétz; "for this night is a carnival.

They squatter away like the witches of Kíeff." At this moment, the

sparks appeared on the opposite side, and drew his attention: "'Tis

the wolves," thought he: "sometimes their eyes glitter brightly!" But

the sparks reappearing, he was stupefied, remembering stories that

the Tchetchenétzes sometimes use this kind of signal to regulate the

movements of their march. This moment of suspense and irresolution was

the moment of his destruction; a dagger [23], directed by a strong arm,

whistled through the air, and the Kazák, transfixed, fell without a

groan to the earth. His comrade was sabred in his sleep, and the pole

with the tub was torn down, and was thrown into the river. All then

rapidly assembled at the given signal, and dashed in a moment on the

village which they had determined to attack. The blow was successfully,

that is, quite unexpectedly, struck. Such of the peasants as had time

to arm, were killed after a desperate resistance: the others hid

themselves or fled. Besides the plunder, a number of men and women

was the reward of their boldness. The Kabardínetzes broke into the

houses, carrying off all that was most valuable, indeed every thing

that came to hand: but they did not set fire to the houses, nor did

they tread down the corn, nor break the vines: "Why touch the gift

of God, and the labour of man?" said they; and this rule of a

mountain robber, who shrinks at no crime, is a virtue which the most

civilized nations might envy. In an hour, all was over for the

inhabitants, but not for the brigands. The alarm spread along the

line, and the mayáks soon began to glimmer through the fog like the

stars of morning, while the call to arms resounded in every direction.

In this interval, a party of the more experienced among the brigands

had gone round the troop of horses which was grazing far in the

steppe. The herdsman was seized, and with cries, and firing their

guns, they charged at the horses from the land side. The animals

started, threw mane and tail into the air, and dashed headlong on

the track of a Tcherkéss mounted on a superb steed, who had remained

on the bank of the river to guide the frightened herd. Like a

skilful pilot, well acquainted, even in a fog, with all the dangers

of the desert sea, the Tcherkéss flew on before the horses, wound

his way among the posts, and at last, having chosen a spot where the

bank was most precipitous, leaped headlong into the Térek. The whole

herd followed him: nothing could be seen but the foam that flew into

the air. Daybreak appeared; the fog began to separate, and

discovered a picture at once magnificent and terrible. The principal

band of forayers dragged the prisoners after it--some were at the

stirrup, others behind the saddle, with their arms tied at their

backs. Tears, and groans, and cries of despair were stifled by the

threats and frantic cries of joy of the victors. Loaded with plunder,

impeded by the flocks and horned cattle, they advanced slowly

towards the Térek. The princes and best cavaliers, in mail-coats and

casques glittering like water, galloped around the dense mass, as

lightning flashes round a livid cloud. In the distance, were

galloping up from every point the Kazáks of the Line; they ambushed

behind the shrubs and straggling oak-trees, and soon began an irregular

fire with the brigands who were sent against them.

[Footnote 23: The Tartars and Circassians possess extraordinary

dexterity in the use of their national weapon--the kinjál, or poniard.

These are sometimes of great size and weight, and when thrown by a

skilful hand, will fly a considerable distance, and with the most

singular accuracy of aim.]

In the meantime, the foremost had driven across the river a portion

of the flocks, when a cloud of dust, and the tramp of cavalry,

announced the approaching storm. About six hundred mountaineers,

commanded by Djemboulát and Ammalát, turned their horses to repulse

the attack, and give time to the rest to escape by the river.

Without order, but with wild cries and shouts, they dashed forward

to meet the Kazáks; but not a single gun was taken from its belt,

not a single sháshka glimmered in the air: a Tcherkéss waits till

the last moment before he seizes his weapons. And thus, having

galloped to the distance of twenty paces, they levelled their

guns, fired at full speed, threw their fire-arms over their backs,

[24] and drew their sháshkas; but the Kazáks of the Line having

replied with a volley, began to fly, and the mountaineers, heated by

the chase, fell into a stratagem which they often employ themselves.

The Kazáks had led them up to the chasseurs of the brave forty-third

regiment, who were concealed at the edge of the forest. Suddenly, as

if the little squares had started out of the earth, the bayonets

were leveled, and the fire poured on them, taking them in flank. It

was in vain that the mountaineers, dismounting from their horses,

essayed to occupy the underwood, and attack the Russians from the

rear; the artillery came up, and decided the affair. The experienced

Colonel Kortsaréff, the dread of the Tchetchenétz, the man whose

bravery they feared, and whose honesty and disinterestedness they

respected, directed the movements of the troops, and success could

not be doubtful. The cannon dispersed the crowds of brigands, and

their grape flew after the flying. The defeat was terrible; two

guns, dashing at a gallop to the promontory, not far from which the

Tcherkéss were throwing themselves into the river, enfiladed the stream;

with a rushing sound, the shot flew over the foaming waves, and at

each fire some of the horses might be seen to turn over with their

feet in the air, drowning their riders. It was sad to see how the

wounded clutched at the tails and bridles of the horses of their

companions, sinking them without saving themselves--how the

exhausted struggled against the scarped bank, endeavouring to

clamber up, fell back, and were borne away and engulfed by the

furious current. The corpses of the slain were whirled away, mingled

with the dying and streaks of blood curled and writhed like serpents

on the foam. The smoke floated far along the Térek, far in the

distance, and the snowy peaks of Caucasus, crowned with mist,

bounded the field of battle. Djemboulát and Ammalát Bek fought

desperately--twenty times did they rush to the attack, twenty times

were they repulsed; wearied, but not conquered, with a hundred

brigands they swam the river, dismounted, attached their horses to

each other by the bridle, and began a warm fire from the other side

of the river, to cover their surviving comrades. Intent upon this,

they remarked, too late, that the Kazáks were passing the river above

them; with a shout of joy, the Russians leaped upon the bank, and

surrounded them in a moment. Their fate was inevitable. "Well,

Djemboulát," said the Bek to the Kabardínetz, "our lot is finished.

Do you what you will; but for me, I will not render myself a

prisoner alive. 'Tis better to die by a ball than by a shameful cord!"

"Do you think," answered Djemboulát, "that my arms were made for a

chain! Allah keep me from such a blot: the Russians may take my body,

but not my soul. Never, never! Brethren, comrades!" he cried to the

others; "fortune has betrayed us, but the steel will not. Let us

sell our lives dearly to the Giaour. The victor is not he who keeps

the field, but he who has the glory; and the glory is his who

prefers death to slavery!" "Let us die, let us die; but let us die

gloriously," cried all, piercing with their daggers the sides of

their horses, that the enemy might not take them, and then piling

up the dead bodies of their steeds, they lay down behind the

heap, preparing to meet the attack with lead and steel. Well aware of

the obstinate resistance they were about to encounter, the Kazáks

stopped, and made ready for the charge. The shot from the opposite

bank sometimes fell in the midst of the brave mountaineers,

sometimes a grenade exploded, covering them with earth and fragments;

but they showed no confusion, they started not, nor blenched; and,

after the custom of their country, began to sing, with a melancholy,

yet threatening voice, the death-song, replying alternately stanza

for stanza.

[Footnote 24: The oriental nations carry their guns at their backs,

supported by a strap passing across the breast.]

DEATH-SONG.

CHORUS.

"Fame to us, death to you,

Alla-ha, Alla-hu!!"

SEMICHORUS.

"Weep, O ye maidens, on mountain and valley,

Lift the dirge for the sons of the brave;

We have fired our last bullet, have made our last rally,

And Caucasus gives us a grave.

Here the soft pipe no more shall invite us to slumber

--The thunder _our_ lullaby sings;

Our eyes not the maiden's dark tresses shall cumber,

_Them_ the raven shall shade with his wings!

Forget, O my children, your father's stern duty--

No more shall he bring ye the Muscovite booty!"

SECOND SEMICHORUS.

"Weep not, O ye maidens; your sisters in splendour,

The Houris, they bend from the sky,

They fix on the brave their sun-glance deep and tender,

And to Paradise bear him on high!

In your feast-cup, my brethren, forget not our story;

The death of the Free is the noblest of glory!"

FIRST SEMICHORUS.

"Roar, winter torrent, and sullenly dash!

But where is the brave one--the swift lightning-flash?

Soft star of my soul, my mother,

Sleep, the fire let ashes smother;

Gaze no more, shine eyes are weary,

Sit not by the threshold stone;

Gaze not through the night-fog dreary,

Eat thine evening meal alone,

Seek him not, O mother, weeping,

By the cliff and by the ford:

On a bed of dust he's sleeping--

Broken is both heart and sword!"

SECOND SEMICHORUS.

"Mother, weep not! with thy love burning:

This heart of mine beats full and free,

And to lion-blood is turning

That soft milks I drew from thee;

And our liberty from danger

Thy brave son has guarded well;

Battling with the Christian stranger,

Call'd by Azrael, he fell;

From my blood fresh odours breathing

Fadeless flowers shall drink the dew;

To my children fame bequeathing,

Brethren, and revenge to you!"

CHORUS.

"Pray, my brethren, ere we part;

Clutch the steel with hate and wrath!

Break it in the Russian's heart--

O'er corpses lies the brave man's path!

Fame to us, death to you,

Alla-ha, Alla-hu!"

Struck by a certain involuntary awe, the Chasseurs and Kazáks

listened in silence to the stern sounds of this song; but at last a

loud _hurrah_ [25] resounded from both sides. The Teherkéss, with a

shout, fired their guns for the last time, and breaking them against

the stones, they threw themselves, dagger in hand, upon the Russians.

The Abréks, in order that their line might not be broken, bound

themselves to each other with their girdles, and hurled themselves

into the mêlée. Quarter was neither asked nor given: all fell before

the bayonets of the Russians. "Forward! follow me, Ammalát Bek,"

cried Djemboulat, with fury, rushing into the combat which was to be

his last--"Forward! for us death is liberty." But Anmalát heard not

his call; a blow from a musket on the back of the head stretched him

on the earth, already sown with corpses, and covered with blood.

[Footnote 25: "Hurrah" means _strike_ in the Tartar language.]

CHAPTER. V.

LETTER FROM COLONEL VERHOFFSKY TO HIS BETROTHED.

_From Derbénd to Smolénsk. October_, 1819.

Two months--how easy to say it!--two centuries have past, dearest

Maria, while your letter was _creeping_ to me. Twice has the moon

made her journey round the earth. You cannot imagine, dearest, how

dreary is this idle objectless life to me; with nothing to employ

me--not even correspondence. I go out, I meet the _Kazák_ [26]

with a secret trembling of heart: with what joy, with what exstacy

do I kiss the lines traced by a pure hand, inspired by a pure

heart--yours, my Maria! With a greedy rapture my eyes devour the

letter: then I am happy--I am wild with joy. But hardly have I

reclosed it when unquiet thoughts again begin to haunt me. "All this

is well," I think; "but all this is past, and I desire to know the

present. Is she well? Does she love me yet? Oh! will the happy time

come soon--soon--when neither time nor distance can divide us? When

the expression of our love will be no longer chilled by the cold

medium of the post!" Pardon, pardon, dearest, these black thoughts

of absence. When heart is--with heart, the lover trusts in all; in

separation he doubts all. You command--for such to me is your

wish--that I should describe my life to you, day by day, hour by hour.

Oh, what sad and tiresome annals mine would be, were I to obey you!

You know well, traitress, that I live not without you. My

existence--'tis but the trace of a shadow on the desert sand. My duty

alone, which wearies at least, if it cannot amuse me, helps me to

get rid of the time. Thrown in a climate ruinous to health, in

society which stifles the soul, I cannot find among my companions a

single person who can sympathise with me. Nor do I find among the

Asiatics any who can understand my thoughts. All that surrounds me

is either so savage or so limited, that it excites sadness and

discontent. Sooner will you obtain fire by striking ice on stone,

than interest from such an existence. But your wish to me is sacred;

and I will present you, in brief, with my last week. It was more

varied than usual.

[Footnote 26: The Kazáks are employed in the Russian army

frequently as couriers.]

I have told you in one of my letters, if I remember, that we are

returning from the campaign of Akoúsh, with the commander-in-chief.

We have done our work; Shah Ali Khan has fled into Persia; we have

burned a number of villages, hay, and corn; and we have eaten the

sheep of the rebels, when we were hungry. When the snow had driven

the insurgents from their mountain-fastnesses, they yielded and

presented hostages. We then marched to the Fort of Boúrnaya, [27]

and from this station our detachment was ordered into winter

quarters. Of this division my regiment forms a part, and our

head-quarters are at Derbénd.

[Footnote 27: Stormy.]

The other day, the general, who was about to depart on another

campaign on the Line, came to take leave of us, and thus there

was a larger company than usual to meet our adored commander.

Alexéi Petróvitch came from his tent, to join us at tea. Who

is not acquainted with his face, from the portraits? But they

cannot be said to know Yermóloff at all, who judge of him only by

a lifeless image. Never was there a face gifted with such nobility

of expression as his! Gazing on those features, chiselled in the

noble outline of the antique, you are involuntarily carried back to

the times of Roman grandeur. The poet was in the right, when he said

of him:--

"On the Koubán--fly, Tartar fleet!

The avenger's falchion gleameth;

His breath--the grapeshot's iron sleet,

His voice--the thunder seemeth!

Around his forehead stern and pale

The fates of war are playing....

He looks--and victory doth quail,

That gesture proud obeying!"

You should witness his coolness in the hour of battle--you should

admire him at a conference: at one time overwhelming the Teberkéss

with the flowing orientalisms of the Asiatic, at another

embarrassing their artifices with a single remark. In vain do they

conceal their thoughts in the most secret folds of their hearts; his

eye follows them, disentangles and unrolls them like worms, and

guesses twenty years beforehand their deeds and their intentions.

Then, again, to see him talking frankly and like a friend with his

brave soldiers, or passing with dignity round the circle of the

tchinóbniks [28] sent from the capital into Georgia. It is curious to

observe how all those whose conscience is not pure, tremble, blush,

turn pale, when he fixes on them his slow and penetrating glance; you

seem to see the roubles of past bribes gliding before the eyes of the

guilty man, and his villanies come rushing on his memory. You see the

pictures of arrest, trial, judgment, sentence, and punishment, his

imagination paints, anticipating the future. No man knows so well

how to distinguish merit by a single glance, a single smile--to

reward gallantry with a word, coming _from_, and going _to_, the

heart. God grant us many years to serve with such a commander!

[Footnote 28: Literally, a person possessing rank, used here to

signify an _employé_ of Government in a civil capacity--all of whom

possess some definite precedence or class (tchin) in the state. ]

But if it be thus interesting to observe him on duty, how delightful

to associate with him in society--a society to which every one

distinguished for rank, bravery, or intellect, has free access:

_here_ rank is forgotten, formality is banished; every one talks

and acts as he pleases, simply because those only who think and act

as they _ought_, form the society. Alexéi Petróvitch jokes with all

like a comrade, and at the same time teaches like a father. As usual,

during tea, one of his adjutants read aloud; it was the account of

Napoleon's Campaign in Italy--that poem of the Art of War, as the

commander-in-chief called it. The company, of course, expressed

their wonder, their admiration, their different opinions and

criticisms. The remarks of Alexéi Petróvitch were lucid, and of

admirable truth.

Then began our gymnastic sports, leaping, running, leaping over the

fire, and trials of strength of various kinds. The evening and the

view were both magnificent: the camp was pitched on the side of Tarki;

over it hangs the fortress of Boúrnaya, behind which the sun was

sinking. Sheltered by a cliff was the house of the Shamkhál, then

the town on a steep declivity, surrounded by the camp, and to the

east the immeasurable steppe of the Caspian sea. Tartar Beks,

Circassian Princes, Kazáks from the various rivers of gigantic Russia,

hostages from different mountains, mingled with the officers.

Uniforms, tchoukhás, coats of chain-mail, were picturesquely mingled;

singing and music rang through the camp, and the soldiers, with

their caps jauntily cocked on one side, were walking in crowds at a

distance. The scene was delightful; it charmed by its picturesque

variety and the force and freshness of military life. Captain Bekóvitch

was boasting that he could strike off the head of a buffalo with one

blow of a kinjál; [29] and two of those clumsy animals were immediately

brought.

[Footnote 29: It is absurd to observe the incredulity

of Europeans as to the possibility of cutting off a head with the

kinjál: it is necessary to live only one week in the East to be quite

convinced of the possibility of the feat. In a practiced hand the

kinjál is a substitute for the hatchet, the bayonet, and the sabre.]

Bets were laid; all were disputing and doubting. The Captain, with a

smile, seized with his left hand a huge dagger, and in an instant an

immense head fell at the feet of the astonished spectators, whose

surprise was instantly succeeded by a desire to do the same: they

hacked and hewed, but all in vain. Many of the strongest men among

the Russians and Asiatics made unsuccessful attempts to perform the

feat, but to do this strength alone was not sufficient. "You are

children--children!" cried the commander-in-chief: and he rose from

table, calling for his sword--a blade which never struck twice, as he

told us. An immense heavy sabre was brought him, and Alexéi Petróvitch,

though confident in his strength, yet, like Ulysses in the Odyssey,

anointing the bow which no one else could bend, first felt the edge,

waved the weapon thrice in the air, and at length addressed himself

to the feat. The betters had hardly time to strike hands when the

buffalo's head bounded at their feet on the earth. So swift and sure

was the blow, that the trunk stood for some instants on its legs,

and then gently, softly, sank down. A cry of astonishment arose from

all: Alexéi Petróvitch quietly looked whether his sabre was notched--for

the weapon had cost him many thousands [of roubles], and presented

it as a keepsake to Captain Bekóvitch.

We were still whispering among ourselves when there appeared before

the commander-in-chief an officer of the Kazáks of the Line, with a

message from Colonel Kortsáreff, who was stationed on the frontier.

When he had received the report, the countenance of Alexéi Petróvitch

brightenened--"Kortsáreff has gloriously trounced the mountaineers!"

said he. "These rascals have made a plundering expedition beyond the

Térek; they have passed far within the Line, and have plundered a

village--but they have lost not only the cattle they had taken, but

fallen a sacrifice to their own fool-hardiness." Having minutely

questioned Yesoúal respecting the details of the affair, he ordered

the prisoners whom they had taken, wounded or recovering, to be

brought before him. Five were led into the presence of the

commander-in-chief.

A cloud passed over his countenance as he beheld them; his brow

contracted, his eyes sparkled. "Villains!" said he to the Ouzdéns;

"you have thrice sworn not to plunder; and thrice have you broken

your oath. What is it that you seek? Lands? Flocks? Means to defend

the one or the other? But no! you are willing to accept presents

from the Russians as allies, and at the same time to guide the

Tcherkéss to plunder our villages, and to plunder along with them.

Hang them!" said he sternly; "hang them up by their own thievish arkáus

(girdles)! Let them draw lots: the fourth shall be spared--let him

go and tell his countrymen that I am coming to teach them to keep

faith, and keep the peace, as I will have it."

The Ouzdéns were conducted away.

There remained one Tartar bek, whom we had not remarked. This was a

young man of twenty-five, of unusual beauty, graceful as the

Belvidere Apollo. He bowed slightly to the commander-in chief as he

approached him, raised his cap, and again resumed his proud

indifferent expression; unshaken resignation to his fate was written

on his features.

The commander-in-chief fixed his stern eye upon his face, but the

young man neither changed countenance nor quivered an eyelash.

"Ammalát Bek," said Alexéi Petróvitch, after a pause, "do you

remember that you are a Russian subject? that the Russian laws are

above you?"

"It would have been impossible to forget that," replied the Bek:

"if I had found in those laws a protection for my rights, I should

not now stand before you a prisoner."

"Ungrateful boy!" cried the commander-in-chief; "your father--you

yourself, have been the enemy of the Russians. Had it been during the

Persian domination of your race, not even the ashes would have

remained; but our Emperor was generous, and instead of punishing you

he gave you lands. And how did you repay his kindness? By secret

plot and open revolt! This is not all: you received and sheltered in

your house a sworn foe to Russia; you permitted him, before your eyes,

traitorously to slaughter a Russian officer. In spite of all this,

had you brought me a submissive head, I would have pardoned you, on

account of your youth and the customs of your nation. But you fled

to the mountains, and with Suleiman Akhmet Khan you committed

violence within the Russian bounds; you were beaten, and again you

make an incursion with Djemboulát. You cannot but know what fate

awaits you."

"I do," coldly answered Ammalát Bek: "I shall be shot."

"No! a bullet is too honourable a death for a brigand," cried the

angry general: "a cart with the shafts turned up--a cord round your

neck--that is the fitting reward."

"It is all one how a man dies," replied Ammalát, "provided he dies

speedily. I ask one favour: do not let me be tormented with a trial:

that is thrice death."

"Thou deservest a hundred deaths, audacious! but I promise you. Be it

so: to-morrow thou shalt die. Assemble a court-martial," continued

the commander-in-chief, turning to his staff: "the fact is clear,

the proof is before your eyes, and let all be finished at one sitting,

before my departure."

He waved his hand, and the condemned prisoner was removed.

The fate of this fine young man touched us all. Every body was

whispering about him; every body pitying him; the more, that

there appeared no means of saving him. Every one knew well the

necessity of punishing this double treason, and the inflexibility

of Alexéi Petróvitch in matters of this publicity: and, therefore,

no one dared to intercede for the unfortunate culprit. The

commander-in-chief was unusually thoughtful for the remainder of the

evening, and the party separated early. I determined to speak a word

for him--"Perhaps," I thought, "I may obtain some commutation of the

sentence." I opened one of the curtains of the tent, and advanced

softly into the presence of Alexéi Petróvitch. He was sitting alone,

resting both arms on a table; before him lay a despatch for the

Emperor, half finished, and which he was writing without any previous

copy. Alexéi Petróvitch knew me as an officer of the suite, and we

had been acquainted since the battle of Kulm. At that time he had

been very kind to me, and therefore my visit was not surprising to

him. "I see--I see, Evstáfii Ivánovitch, you have a design upon my

heart! In general you come in as if you were marching up to a battery,

but now you hardly walk on tip-toe. This is not for nothing. I am

sure you are come with a request about Ammalát."

"You have guessed it," said I to Alexéi Petróvitch, not knowing how

to begin.

"Sit down, then, and let us talk it over," he replied. Then, after a

silence of a couple of minutes, he continued, kindly, "I know that a

report goes about respecting me, that I treat the lives of men as a

plaything--their blood as water. The most cruel tyrants have hidden

their bloodthirstiness under a mask of benevolence. They feared a

reputation for cruelty, though they feared not to commit deeds of

cruelty; but I--I have intentionally clothed myself with this sort

of character, and purposely dressed my name in terror. I desire, and

it is my duty to desire, that my name should protect our frontier

more effectually than lines and fortresses--that a single word of

mine should be, to the Asiatics, more certain, more inevitable, than

death. The European may be reasoned with: he is influenced by

conscience, touched by kindness, attached by pardon, won by

benefits; but to the Asiatic all this is an infallible proof of

weakness; and to him I--even from motives of philanthropy--have

shown myself unmitigably severe. A single execution preserves a

hundred Russians from destruction, and deters a thousand Mussulmans

from treason. Evstáfii Ivánovitch, many will not believe my words,

because each conceals the cruelty of his nature, and his secret

revengefulness, under excuses of necessity--each says, with a

pretence of feeling, 'Really I wish from my heart to pardon,

but be judges yourselves--can I? What, after this, are laws--what

is the general welfare?' All this I never say; in my eyes no tear

is seen when I sign a sentence of death: but my heart bleeds."

Alexéi Petróvitch was touched; he walked agitatedly several times up

and down the tent; then seated himself, and continued--"Never, in

spite of all this, never has it been so difficult to me to punish as

this day. He who, like me, has lived much among the Asiatics, ceases

to trust in Lavater, and places no more confidence in a handsome

face than in a letter of recommendation; but the look, the expression,

the demeanour of this Ammalát, have produced on me an unusual

impression. I am sorry for him."

"A generous heart," said I, "is a better oracle than reason."

"The heart of a conscientious man, my dear friend, ought to be under

the command of reason. I certainly _can_ pardon Ammalát, but I

_ought_ to punish him. Daghestán is still filled with the enemies

of Russia, notwithstanding their assurances of submission; even

Tarki is ready to revolt at the first movement in the mountains: we

must rivet their chains by punishment, and show the Tartars that no

birth can screen the guilty--that all are equal in the sight of the

Russian law. If I pardon Ammalát, all his relations will begin to

boast that Yermóloff is afraid of the Shamkhál." I remarked, that

indulgence shown to so extensive a clan would have a good effect on

the country--in particular the Shamkhál.

"The Shamkhal is an Asiatic," interrupted Alexéi Petróvitch;

"he would be delighted that this heir to the Shamkhalát should be

sent to the Elysian fields. Besides, I care very little to guess or

gratify the wishes of his kinsmen."

I saw that the commander-in-chief began to waver, and I urged him

more pressingly. "Let me serve for three years," said I; "do not

give me leave of absence this year--only have mercy on this young man.

He is young, and Russia may find in him a faithful servant.

Generosity is never thrown away."

Alexéi Petróvitch shook his head.

"I have made many ungrateful," said he, "already; but be it so. I

pardon him, and not by halves--that is not my way. I thank you for

having helped me to be merciful, not to say weak. Only remember my

words: You wish to take him to yourself--do not trust him; do not

warm a serpent in your bosom."

I was so delighted with my success, that, hastily quitting the

commander-in-chief, I ran to the tent in which Ammalát Bek was

confined. Three sentinels were guarding him; a lantern was burning

in the midst. I entered; the prisoner was lying wrapped up in his

boúrka, and tears were sparkling on his face. He did not hear my

entrance, so profoundly was he buried in thought. To whom is it

pleasant to part with life? I was rejoiced that I brought comfort to

him at so melancholy a moment.

"Ammalát," said I, "Allah is great, and the Sardár is merciful; he

has granted you your life!"

The delighted prisoner started up, and endeavoured to reply, but the

breath was stifled in his breast. Immediately, however, a shade of

gloom covered his features. "Life!" he exclaimed; "I understand this

generosity! To consign a man to a breathless dungeon, without light

or air--to send him to eternal winter, to a night never illumined by

a star--to bury him alive in the bowels of the earth--to take from

him not only the power to act, not only the means of life, but even

the privilege of telling his kinsmen of his sad lot--to deny him not

only the right to complain, but even the power of murmuring his

sorrow to the wind. And this you call life! this unceasing torment

you boast of as rare generosity! Tell the General that I want

not--that I scorn--such a life."

"You are mistaken, Ammalát," I cried; "you are fully pardoned: remain

what you were, the master of your actions and possessions. There is

your sword. The commander-in-chief is sure that in future you will

unsheathe it only for the Russians. I offer you one condition; come

and live with me till the report of your actions has died away. You

shall be to be as a friend, as a brother."

This struck the Asiatic. Tears shone in his eyes. "The Russians have

conquered me," he said: "pardon me, colonel, that I thought ill of

all of you. From henceforth I am a faithful servant of the Russian

Tsar--a faithful friend to the Russians, soul and sword. My sword,

my sword!" he cried, gazing fixedly on his costly blade; "let these

tears wash from thee the Russian blood and the Tartar _naphtha_! [30]

When and how can I reward you, with my service, for liberty and life?"

[Footnote 30: The Tartars, to preserve their weapons, and to produce a

black colour on them, smoke the metal, and then rub it with naphtha.]

I am sure, my dear Maria, that you will keep me, for this, one

of your sweetest kisses. Ever, ever, when feeling or acting

generously, I console myself with the thought, "My Maria will

praise me for this!" But when is this to happen, my darling?

Fate is but a stepmother to us. Your mourning is prolonged, and

the commander-in-chief has decidedly refused me leave of absence;

nor am I much displeased, annoying as it is: my regiment is in

a bad state of discipline--indeed, as bad as can be imagined;

besides, I am charged with the construction of new barracks and

the colonization of a married company. If I were absent for a month,

every thing would go wrong. If I remain, what a sacrifice of my heart!

Here we have been at Derbénd three days. Ammalát lives with me: he

is silent, sad, and savage; but his fear is interesting, nevertheless.

He speaks Russian very well, and I have commenced teaching him to read

and write. His intelligence is unusually great. In time, I hope to

make him a most charming Tartar. (_The conclusion of the letter has

no reference to our story_.)

Fragment of another letter from Colonel Verhóffsky to his _fiancée_,

written six months after the preceding.

From Derbénd to Smolénsk.

Your favourite Ammalát, my dearest Maria, will soon be quite

Russianized. The Tartar Beks, in general, think the first step of

civilization consists in the use of the unlawful wine and pork. I,

on the contrary, have begun by re-educating the mind of Ammalát. I

show him, I prove to him, what is bad in the customs of his nation,

and what is good in those of ours; I explain to him universal and

eternal truths. I read with him, I accustom him to write, and I

remark with pleasure that he takes the deepest interest in

composition. I may say, indeed, that he is passionately fond of it;

for with him every wish, every desire, every caprice, is a

passion--an ardent and impatient passion. It is difficult for a

European to imagine, and still more difficult to understand, the

inflammability of the unruly, or rather unbridled, passions of an

Asiatic, with whom the will alone has been, since childhood, the

only limit to his desires. Our passions are like domestic animals; or,

if they are wild beasts, they are tamed, and taught to dance upon

the rope of the "conveniences," with a ring through their nostrils

and their claws cut: in the East they are free as the lion and the

tiger.

It is curious to observe, on the countenance of Ammalát, the blush

with which his features are covered at the least contradiction; the

fire with which he is filled at any dispute; but as soon as he finds

that he is in the wrong, he turns pale, and seems ready to weep.

"I am in the wrong," says he; "pardon me: takhsirumdam ghitch,

(blot out my fault;) forget that I am wrong, and that you have

pardoned me." He has a good heart, but a heart always ready to be

set on fire, either by a ray of the sun or by a spark of hell.

Nature has gifted him with all that is necessary to render him a man,

as well in his moral as physical constitution; but national

prejudices, and the want of education, have done all that is

possible to disfigure and to corrupt these natural qualities. His

mind is a mixture of all sorts of inconsistencies, of the most

absurd ideas, and of the soundest thoughts: sometimes he seizes

instantly abstract propositions when they are presented to him in a

simple form, and again he will obstinately oppose the plainest and

most evident truths: because the former are quite new to him, and

the latter are obscured by previous prejudices and impressions. I

begin to fancy that it is easier to build a new edifice than to

reconstruct an old one.

But how happens it that Ammalát is melancholy and absent? He makes

great progress in every thing that does not require an attentive and

continuous reflection, and a gradual development; but when the

matter involves remote consequences, his mind resembles a short

fire-arm, which sends its charge quickly, direct, and strongly, but

not to any distance. Is this a defect of his mind? or is it that his

attention is entirely occupied with something else? ... For a man of

twenty-three, however, it is easy to imagine the cause. Sometimes he

appears to be listening attentively to what I am telling him; but

when I ask for his answer, he seems all abroad. Sometimes I find the

tears flowing from his eyes: I address him--he neither hears nor

sees me. Last night he was restless in his sleep, and I heard the

word "seltanét--seltanét," (power, power,) frequently escape him. Is

it possible that the love of power can so torment a young heart? No,

no! another passion agitates, troubles the soul of Ammalát. Is it

for me to doubt of the symptoms of love's divine disease? He is in

love--he is passionately in love; but with whom? Oh, I will know!

Friendship is as curious as a woman.

OCCUPATION OF ADEN.