“And do you know?  Pray, do not annoy me with your prate, Saphir Ali:  not even under the name of Sadi and Hafiz.”

“Why, what harm is there?  If even this prate is my own, it is not an earring:  it will not remain hanging in your ear.  When you begin your story about your goddess Seltanetta, I look at you as at the juggler, who eats fire, and winds endless ribbons from his cheeks.  Love makes you talk nonsense, and the Donskoi (wine of the Don) makes me do the same.  So we are quits.  Now, then, to the health of the Russians!”

“What has made you like the Russians?”

“Say rather—­why have you ceased to love them?”

“Because I have examined them nearer.  Really they are no better than our Tartars.  They are just as eager for profit, just as ready to blame others, and not with a view of improving their fellow-creatures, but to excuse themselves:  and as to their laziness—­don’t let us speak of it.  They have ruled here for a long time, and what good have they done; what firm laws have they established; what useful customs have they introduced; what have they taught us; what have they created here, or what have they constructed worthy of notice?  Verkhoffsky has opened my eyes to the faults of my countrymen, but at the same time to the defects of the Russians, to whom it is more unpardonable; because they know what is right, have grown up among good examples, and here, as if they have forgotten their mission, and their active nature, they sink, little by little, into the insignificance of the beasts.”

“I hope you do not include Verkhoffsky in this number.”

“Not he alone, but some others, deserve to be placed in a separate circle.  But then, are there many such?”

“Even the angels in heaven are numbered, Ammalat Bek:  and Verkhoffsky absolutely is a man for whose justice and kindness we ought to thank heaven.  Is there a single Tartar who can speak ill of him?  Is there a soldier who would not give his soul for him?  Abdul-Hamet, more wine!  Now then, to the health of Verkhoffsky!”

“Spare me!  I will not drink to Mahomet himself.”

“If your heart is not as black as the eyes of Seltanetta, you will drink, even were it in the presence of the red-bearded Yakhounts of the Shakheeds[9] of Derbent:  even if all the Imams and Shieks not only licked their lips but bit their nails out of spite to you for such a sacrilege.”

    [9] Shakheeds, traders of the sect of Souni.  Yakhount the
    senior moollah.

“I will not drink, I tell you.”

“Hark ye, Ammalat:  I am ready to let the devil get drunk on my blood for your sake, and you won’t drink a glass of wine for mine.”

“That is to say, that I will not drink because I do not wish—­and I don’t wish, because even without wine my blood boils in me like fermenting booza.”

“A bad excuse!  It is not the first time that we have drunk, nor the first time that our blood boils.  Speak plainly at once:  you are angry with the Colonel.”