uns, and the fun began! Noise--shouts--shots! But by this
time Kazbich was in the saddle, and, wheeling among the crowd along the
street, defended himself like a madman, brandishing his sabre.

"'It is a bad thing to interfere in other people's quarrels,' I said to
Grigori Aleksandrovich, taking him by the arm. 'Wouldn't it be better
for us to clear off without loss of time?'

"'Wait, though, and see how it will end!'

"'Oh, as to that, it will be sure enough to end badly; it is always
so with these Asiatics. Once let them get drunk on buza, and there's
certain to be bloodshed.'

"We mounted and galloped home."

CHAPTER IV

"TELL me, what became of Kazbich?" I asked the staff-captain
impatiently.

"Why, what can happen to that sort of a fellow?" he answered, finishing
his tumbler of tea. "He slipped away, of course."

"And wasn't he wounded?" I asked.

"Goodness only knows! Those scoundrels take a lot of killing! In action,
for instance, I've seen many a one, sir, stuck all over with bayonets
like a sieve, and still brandishing his sabre."

After an interval of silence the staff-captain continued, tapping the
ground with his foot:

"One thing I'll never forgive myself for. On our arrival at the fortress
the devil put it into my head to repeat to Grigori Aleksandrovich
all that I had heard when I was eavesdropping behind the fence. He
laughed--cunning fellow!--and thought out a little plan of his own."

"What was that? Tell me, please."

"Well, there's no help for it now, I suppose. I've begun the story, and
so I must continue.

"In about four days' time Azamat rode over to the fortress. As his usual
custom was, he went to see Grigori Aleksandrovich, who always used to
give him sweetmeats to eat. I was present. The conversation was on the
subject of horses, and Pechorin began to sound the praises of Kazbich's
Karagyoz. What a mettlesome horse it was, and how handsome! A perfect
chamois! In fact, judging by his account, there simply wasn't another
like it in the whole world!

"The young Tartar's beady eyes began to sparkle, but Pechorin didn't
seem to notice the fact. I started to talk about something else, but
immediately, mark you, Pechorin caused the conversation to strike off on
to Kazbich's horse. Every time that Azamat came it was the same story.
After about three weeks, I began to observe that Azamat was growing
pale and wasted, just as people in novels do from love, sir. What wonder
either!