lothed in a shirt of
mail, the other in the Circassian dress: except that he wore a Persian
sabre instead of a shashka,[38] suspended by a laced girdle. His left
arm was covered with blood, bound up with a handkerchief, and supported
by the sword-knot. The faces of both were concealed. For some time he
rode behind them along the slippery path, which overhung a precipice;
but at the first open space he galloped by them, and turned his horse
round. "Salam aleikom!" said he, opposing their passage along the rugged
and half-built road among the rocks, as he made ready his arms. The
foremost horseman suddenly wrapped his bourka[39] round his face, so as
to leave visible only his knit brows: "Aleikom Salam!" answered he,
cocking his gun, and fixing himself in the saddle.

[38] The Circassian sabre.

[39] A rough cloak, used as a protection in bad weather.

"God give you a good journey!" said Nephtali. repeating the usual
salutation, and preparing, at the first hostile movement, to shoot the
stranger.

"God give you enough of sense not to interrupt the traveller," replied
his antagonist, impatiently: "What would you with us, Kounak?"[40]

[40] Friend, comrade.

"I offer you rest, and a brother's repast, barley and stalls for your
horses. My threshold flourishes by hospitality: the blessing of the
stranger increaseth the flock, and giveth sharpness to the sword of the
master. Fix not the seal of reproach on our whole village. Let them not
say, 'They have seen travellers in the heat of noon, and have not
refreshed them nor sheltered them.'"

"We thank you for your kindness; but we are not wont to take forced
hospitality; and haste is even more necessary for us than rest."

"You ride to your death without a guide."

"Guide!" exclaimed the traveller; "I know every step of the Caucasus. I
have been where your serpents climb not, your tigers cannot mount, your
eagles cannot fly. Make way, comrade: thy threshold is not on God's
high-road, and I have no time to prate with thee."

"I will not yield a step, till I know who and whence you are!"

"Insolent scoundrel, out of my way, or thy mother shall beg thy bones
from the jackall and the wind! Thank your luck, Nephtali, that thy
father and I have eaten one another's salt; and often have ridden by his
side in the battle. Unworthy son! thou art rambling about the roads, and
ready to attack the peaceable travellers, while thy father's corse lies
rotting on the f