My hand trembles—­my heart flutters in my bosom.  If I wrote with my blood, ’twould scorch the paper.  Seltanetta! your image pursues me dreaming or awake.  The image of your charms is more dangerous than the reality.  The thought that I may never possess them, touch them, see them, perhaps, plunges me into an incessant melancholy—­at once I melt and burn.  I recall each lovely feature, each attitude of your exquisite person—­that little foot, the seal of love, that bosom, the gem of bliss!  The remembrance of your voice makes my soul thrill like the chord of an instrument—­ready to burst from the clearness of its tone—­and your kiss! that kiss in which I drank your soul!  It showers roses and coals of fire upon my lonely bed—­I burn—­my hot lips are tortured by the thirst for caresses—­my hand longs to clasp your waist—­to touch your knees!  Oh, come—­Oh, fly to me—­that I may die in delight, as now I do in weariness!

* * * * *

Colonel Verkhoffsky, endeavouring by every possible means to divert Ammalat’s grief, thought of amusing him with a boar-hunt, the favourite occupation of the Beks of Daghestan.  In answer to his summons, there assembled about twenty persons, each attended by his noukers, each eager to try his fortune, or to gallop about the field and vaunt his courage.  Already had grey December covered the tops of the surrounding mountains with the first-fallen snow.  Here and there in the streets of Derbend lay a crust of ice, but over it the mud rolled in sluggish waves along the uneven pavement.  The sea lazily plashed against the sunken turrets of the walls which descended to the water, a flock of bustards and of geese whizzed through the fog, and flew with a complaining cry above the ramparts; all was dark and melancholy—­even the dull and tiresome braying of the asses laden with faggots for the market, sounded like a dirge over the fine weather.  The old Tartars sat in the bazars, wrapping their shoubes over their noses.  But this is exactly the weather most favourable to hunters.  Hardly had the moollahs of the town proclaimed the hour of prayer, when the Colonel, attended by several of his officers, the Beks of the city, and Ammalat, rode, or rather swam, through the mud, leaving the town in the direction of the north, through the principal gate Keerkhlar Kapi, which is covered with iron plates.  The road leading to Tarki is rude in appearance, bordered for a few paces to the right and left with beds of madder—­beyond them lie vast burying-grounds, and further still towards the sea, scattered gardens.  But the appearance of the suburbs is a great deal more magnificent than those of the Southern ones.  To the left, on the rocks were seen the Keifars, or barracks of the regiment of Kourin; while on both sides of the road, fragments of rock lay in picturesque disorder, rolled down in heaps by the violence of the mountain-torrents.  A forest of ilex, covered with hoar-frost, thickened as it approached Vellikent, and at each verst the retinue of Verkhoffsky was swelled by fresh arrivals of Beglar and Agalar[4].  The hunting party now turned to the left, and they speedily heard the cry of the ghayalstchiks[5] assembled from the surrounding villages.  The hunters formed into an extended chain, some on horseback, and some running on foot; and soon the wild-boars also began to show themselves.