A Hero of Our Time | Page 9

heard in the darkness a horse trotting
along the bank of the hollow, snorting, neighing, and beating the
ground with his hoofs. I recognised my Karagyoz's voice; 'twas he, my
comrade!" . . . Since that time we have never been parted!'
"And I could hear him patting his galloper's sleek neck with his hand,
as he called him various fond names.
"'If I had a stud of a thousand mares,' said Azamat, 'I would give it all
for your Karagyoz!'
"'Yok![1] I would not take it!' said Kazbich indifferently.
[1] "No!"
"'Listen, Kazbich,' said Azamat, trying to ingratiate himself with him.
'You are a kind- hearted man, you are a brave horseman, but my father
is afraid of the Russians and will not allow me to go on the mountains.
Give me your horse, and I will do anything you wish. I will steal my
father's best rifle for you, or his sabre -- just as you like -- and his sabre
is a genuine Gurda;[1] you have only to lay the edge against your hand,
and it will cut you; a coat of mail like yours is nothing against it.'
[1] A particular kind of ancient and valued sabre.

"Kazbich remained silent.
"'The first time I saw your horse,' continued Azamat, 'when he was
wheeling and leaping under you, his nostrils distended, and the flints
flying in showers from under his hoofs, something I could not
understand took place within my soul; and since that time I have been
weary of everything. I have looked with disdain on my father's best
gallopers; I have been ashamed to be seen on them, and yearning has
taken pos- session of me. In my anguish I have spent whole days on the
cliffs, and, every minute, my thoughts have kept turning to your black
galloper with his graceful gait and his sleek back, straight as an arrow.
With his keen, bright eyes he has looked into mine as if about to
speak! . . . I shall die, Kazbich, if you will not sell him to me!' said
Azamat, with trembling voice.
"I could hear him burst out weeping, and I must tell you that Azamat
was a very stubborn lad, and that not for anything could tears be wrung
from him, even when he was a little younger.
"In answer to his tears, I could hear some- thing like a laugh.
"'Listen,' said Azamat in a firm voice. 'You see, I am making up my
mind for anything. If you like, I will steal my sister for you! How she
dances! How she sings! And the way she embroiders with gold --
marvellous! Not even a Turkish Padishah[1] has had a wife like her! . . .
Shall I? Wait for me to-morrow night, yonder, in the gorge where the
torrent flows; I will go by with her to the neighbouring village -- and
she is yours. Surely Bela is worth your galloper!'
[1] King -- a title of the Sultan of Turkey.
"Kazbich remained silent for a long, long time. At length, instead of
answering, he struck up in an undertone the ancient song:
"Many a beauty among us dwells
From whose eyes' dark depths the starlight wells,

'Tis an envied lot and sweet, to hold
Their love; but brighter is freedom bold.
Four wives are yours if you pay the gold;
But a mettlesome steed is of price untold;
The whirlwind itself on the steppe is less fleet;
He knows no treachery -- no deceit."[2]
[2] I beg my readers' pardon for having versified Kazbich's song, which,
of course, as I heard it, was in prose; but habit is second nature.
(Author's note.)
"In vain Azamat entreated him to consent. He wept, coaxed, and swore
to him. Finally, Kazbich interrupted him impatiently:
"'Begone, you crazy brat! How should you think to ride on my horse?
In three steps you would be thrown and your neck broken on the
stones!'
"'I?' cried Azamat in a fury, and the blade of the child's dagger rang
against the coat of mail. A powerful arm thrust him away, and he struck
the wattle fence with such violence that it rocked.
"'Now we'll see some fun!' I thought to myself.
"I rushed into the stable, bridled our horses and led them out into the
back courtyard. In a couple of minutes there was a terrible uproar in the
hut. What had happened was this: Azamat had rushed in, with his tunic
torn, saying that Kazbich was going to murder him. All sprang out,
seized their guns, 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