“You have guessed it,” said I to Alexei Petrovitch, not knowing how to begin.

“Sit down, then, and let us talk it over,” he replied.  Then, after a silence of a couple of minutes, he continued, kindly, “I know that a report goes about respecting me, that I treat the lives of men as a plaything—­their blood as water.  The most cruel tyrants have hidden their bloodthirstiness under a mask of benevolence.  They feared a reputation for cruelty, though they feared not to commit deeds of cruelty; but I—­I have intentionally clothed myself with this sort of character, and purposely dressed my name in terror.  I desire, and it is my duty to desire, that my name should protect our frontier more effectually than lines and fortresses—­that a single word of mine should be, to the Asiatics, more certain, more inevitable, than death.  The European may be reasoned with:  he is influenced by conscience, touched by kindness, attached by pardon, won by benefits; but to the Asiatic all this is an infallible proof of weakness; and to him I—­even from motives of philanthropy—­have shown myself unmitigably severe.  A single execution preserves a hundred Russians from destruction, and deters a thousand Mussulmans from treason.  Evstafii Ivanovitch, many will not believe my words, because each conceals the cruelty of his nature, and his secret revengefulness, under excuses of necessity—­each says, with a pretence of feeling, ’Really I wish from my heart to pardon, but be judges yourselves—­can I?  What, after this, are laws—­what is the general welfare?’ All this I never say; in my eyes no tear is seen when I sign a sentence of death:  but my heart bleeds.”

Alexei Petrovitch was touched; he walked agitatedly several times up and down the tent; then seated himself, and continued—­“Never, in spite of all this, never has it been so difficult to me to punish as this day.  He who, like me, has lived much among the Asiatics, ceases to trust in Lavater, and places no more confidence in a handsome face than in a letter of recommendation; but the look, the expression, the demeanour of this Ammalat, have produced on me an unusual impression.  I am sorry for him.”

“A generous heart,” said I, “is a better oracle than reason.”

“The heart of a conscientious man, my dear friend, ought to be under the command of reason.  I certainly can pardon Ammalat, but I ought to punish him.  Daghestan is still filled with the enemies of Russia, notwithstanding their assurances of submission; even Tarki is ready to revolt at the first movement in the mountains:  we must rivet their chains by punishment, and show the Tartars that no birth can screen the guilty—­that all are equal in the sight of the Russian law.  If I pardon Ammalat, all his relations will begin to boast that Yermoloff is afraid of the Shamkhal.”  I remarked, that indulgence shown to so extensive a clan would have a good effect on the country—­in particular the Shamkhal.