serve me with your words.
I know that Ammalat trusts you completely; and if, for his good, you
will arrange this--he will come over to me, and bring you with him. You
shall live, singing, under my wing. But I repeat, if, by chance or on
purpose, you betray me, or injure me by your gossiping, I will make of
your old flesh a kibab for the Shaitans!"

"Be easy, Khan! They have nothing to do either for me or with me. I will
keep the secret like the grave, and I will _put my sarotchka_[23] on
Ammalat."

[23] Give him her feelings--a Tartar phrase.

"Well, be it so, old woman. Here is a golden seal for your lips. Take
pains!"

"_Bathousta, ghez-ousta_!"[24] exclaimed the old woman, seizing the
ducat with greediness, and kissing the Khan's hand for his present. The
Sultan Akhmet Khan looked contemptuously at the base creature, whilst he
quitted the sakla.

[24] Willingly, if you please? Literally, "on my head, on my
eyes."

"Reptile!" he grumbled to himself, "for a sheep, for a piece of cloth of
gold, thou wouldst be ready to sell thy daughter's body, thy son's soul,
and thy foster-son's happiness!"

He did not reflect upon what name he deserved himself, entangling his
friend in deceit, and hiring such vile creatures for low slander and for
villanous intentions.

_Fragment of a Letter from Colonel Verkhoffsky to his Betrothed_.

Camp near the Village of Kiafir Koumik, August.

... Ammalat loves, and how he loves! Never, not even in the hottest fire
of my youth, did my love rise to such a frenzy. I burned, like a censer
lighted by a sunbeam; he flames, like a ship set on fire by lightning on
the stormy sea. With you, my Maria, I have read more than once
Shakspeare's Othello; and only the frantic Othello can give an idea of
the tropical passion of Ammalat. He loves to speak long and often of his
Seltanetta, and I love to hear his volcanic eloquence. At times it is a
turbid cataract thrown out by a profound abyss--at times a fiery
fountain of the naphtha of Bakou. What stars his eyes scatter at that
moment--what light plays on his cheeks--how handsome he is! There is
nothing ideal in him: but then the earthly is grand, is captivating. I
myself, carried away and deeply moved, receive on my breast the youth
fainting from rapture: he breathes long, with slow sighs, and then
casting down his eyes, lowering his head as if ashamed to look at the
light--not only on me--presses my hand, and walks away with an