!"

With these words the Khan turned his horse, and rode away at full gallop
to his retinue. If on the stupefied Ammalat the thunderbolt of heaven
had fallen, he could not have been more astounded than by this
unexpected explanation. Already had the dust raised by the horse's hoofs
of the retiring Khan been laid at rest; but he still stood immovable on
the hill now darkening in the shadow of sunset.

CHAPTER IX.

Colonel Verkhoffsky, engaged in reducing to submission the rebellious
Daghestanetzes, was encamped with his regiment at the village of
Kiafir-Kaumik. The tent of Ammalat Bek was erected next to his own, and
in it Saphir-Ali, lazily stretched on the carpet, was drinking the wine
of the Don, notwithstanding the prohibition of the Prophet. Ammalat Bek,
thin, pale, and pensive, was resting his head against the tent-pole,
smoking a pipe. Three months had passed since the time when he was
banished from his paradise; and he was now roving with a detachment,
within sight of the mountains to which his heart flew, but whither his
foot durst not step. Grief had worn out his strength; vexation had
poured its vial on his once serene character. He had dragged a sacrifice
to his attachment to the Russians, and it seemed as if he reproached
every Russian with it. Discontent was visible in every word, in every
glance.

"A fine thing wine!" said Saphir Ali, carefully wiping the glasses;
"surely Mahomet must have met with sour dregs in Aravete, when he
forbade the juice of the grape to true believers! Why, really these
drops are as sweet as if the angels themselves, in their joy, had wept
their tears into bottles. Ho! quaff another glass, Ammalat; your heart
will float on the wine more lightly than a bubble. Do you know what
Hafiz has sung about it?"

"And do you know? Pray, do not annoy me with your prate, Saphir Ali: not
even under the name of Sadi and Hafiz."

"Why, what harm is there? If even this prate is my own, it is not an
earring: it will not remain hanging in your ear. When you begin your
story about your goddess Seltanetta, I look at you as at the juggler,
who eats fire, and winds endless ribbons from his cheeks. Love makes you
talk nonsense, and the Donskoi (wine of the Don) makes me do the same.
So we are quits. Now, then, to the health of the Russians!"

"What has made you like the Russians?"

"Say rather--why have you ceased to love them?"

"Because I have examined them nearer. Really they are no