ields of Russia, and the wives of the Kazaks are selling
his arms in the bazar. Nephtali, thy father was slain yesterday beyond
the Terek. Dost thou know me now?"

"Sultan Akhmet Khan!" cried the Tchetchenetz, struck by the piercing
look and by the terrible news. His voice was stifled, and he fell
forward on his horse's neck in inexpressible grief.

"Yes, I am Sultan Akhmet Khan! but grave this in your memory,
Nephtali--that if you say to any one, 'I have seen the Khan of Avar,' my
vengeance will live from generation to generation."

The strangers passed on, the Khan in silence, plunged, as it seemed, in
painful recollections; Ammalat (for it was he) in gloomy thought. The
dress of both bore witness to recent fighting; their mustaches were
singed by the priming, and splashes of blood had dried upon their faces;
but the proud look of the first seemed to defy to the combat fate and
chance; a gloomy smile, of hate mingled with scorn, contracted his lip.
On the other hand, on the features of Ammalat exhaustion was painted. He
could hardly turn his languid eyes; and from time to time a groan
escaped him, caused by the pain of his wounded arm. The uneasy pace of
the Tartar horse, unaccustomed to the mountain roads, renewed the
torment of his wound. He was the first to break the silence.

"Why have you refused the offer of these good people? We might have
stopped an hour or two to repose, and at dewfall we could have
proceeded."

"You think so, because you feel like a young man, dear Ammalat: you are
used to rule your Tartars like slaves, and you fancy that you can
conduct yourself with the same ease among the free mountaineers. The
hand of fate weighs heavily upon us;--we are defeated and flying.
Hundreds of brave mountaineers--your noukers and my own--have fallen in
fight with the Russians; and the Tchetchenetz has seen turned to flight
the face of Sultan Akhmet Khan, which they are wont to behold the star
of victory! To accept the beggar's repast, perhaps to hear reproaches
for the death of fathers and sons, carried away by me in this rash
expedition--'twould be to lose their confidence for ever. Time will
pass, tears will dry up; the thirst of vengeance will take place of
grief for the dead; and then again Sultan Akhmet will be seen the
prophet of plunder and of blood. Then again the battle-signal shall echo
through the mountains, and I shall once more lead flying bands of
avengers into the Russian limits. If I go now