“The Shamkhal is an Asiatic,” interrupted Alexei Petrovitch; “he would be delighted that this heir to the Shamkhalat should be sent to the Elysian fields.  Besides, I care very little to guess or gratify the wishes of his kinsmen.”

I saw that the commander-in-chief began to waver, and I urged him more pressingly.  “Let me serve for three years,” said I; “do not give me leave of absence this year—­only have mercy on this young man.  He is young, and Russia may find in him a faithful servant.  Generosity is never thrown away.”

Alexei Petrovitch shook his head.

“I have made many ungrateful,” said he, “already; but be it so.  I pardon him, and not by halves—­that is not my way.  I thank you for having helped me to be merciful, not to say weak.  Only remember my words:  You wish to take him to yourself—­do not trust him; do not warm a serpent in your bosom.”

I was so delighted with my success, that, hastily quitting the commander-in-chief, I ran to the tent in which Ammalat Bek was confined.  Three sentinels were guarding him; a lantern was burning in the midst.  I entered; the prisoner was lying wrapped up in his bourka, and tears were sparkling on his face.  He did not hear my entrance, so profoundly was he buried in thought.  To whom is it pleasant to part with life?  I was rejoiced that I brought comfort to him at so melancholy a moment.

“Ammalat,” said I, “Allah is great, and the Sardar is merciful; he has granted you your life!”

The delighted prisoner started up, and endeavoured to reply, but the breath was stifled in his breast.  Immediately, however, a shade of gloom covered his features.  “Life!” he exclaimed; “I understand this generosity!  To consign a man to a breathless dungeon, without light or air—­to send him to eternal winter, to a night never illumined by a star—­to bury him alive in the bowels of the earth—­to take from him not only the power to act, not only the means of life, but even the privilege of telling his kinsmen of his sad lot—­to deny him not only the right to complain, but even the power of murmuring his sorrow to the wind.  And this you call life! this unceasing torment you boast of as rare generosity!  Tell the General that I want not—­that I scorn—­such a life.”

“You are mistaken, Ammalat,” I cried; “you are fully pardoned:  remain what you were, the master of your actions and possessions.  There is your sword.  The commander-in-chief is sure that in future you will unsheathe it only for the Russians.  I offer you one condition; come and live with me till the report of your actions has died away.  You shall be to be as a friend, as a brother.”

This struck the Asiatic.  Tears shone in his eyes.  “The Russians have conquered me,” he said:  “pardon me, colonel, that I thought ill of all of you.  From henceforth I am a faithful servant of the Russian Tsar—­a faithful friend to the Russians, soul and sword.  My sword, my sword!” he cried, gazing fixedly on his costly blade; “let these tears wash from thee the Russian blood and the Tartar naphtha! [30] When and how can I reward you, with my service, for liberty and life?”