“Pray to God that I may not have to deliver your bones from these singers,” said Saphir Ali.  They separated.  Samit led Ammalat among the bushes, over the river, and having passed about half a verst among stones, began to descend.  At the risk of their necks they clambered along the rocks, clinging by the roots of the sweet-briar, and at length, after a difficult journey, descended into the narrow mouth of a small cavern parallel with the water.  It had been excavated by the washing of the stream, erewhile rapid, but now dried up.  Long stalactites of lime and crystal glittered in the light of a fire piled in the middle.  In the back-ground lay Sultan Akhmet Khan on a bourka, and seemed to be waiting patiently till Ammalat should recover himself amid the thick smoke which rolled in masses through the cave.  A cocked gun lay across his knees; the tuft in his cap fluttered in the wind which blew from the crevices.  He rose politely as Ammalat hurried to salute him.

“I am glad to see you,” he said, pressing the hands of his guest; “and I do not hide the feeling which I ought not to cherish.  However, it is not for an empty interview that I have put my foot into the trap, and troubled you:  sit down, Ammalat, and let us speak about an important affair.”

“To me, Sultan Akhmet Khan?”

“To us both.  With your father I have eaten bread and salt.  There was a time when I counted you likewise as my friend.”

“But counted!”

“No! you were my friend, and would ever have remained so, if the deceiver, Verkhoffsky, had not stepped between us.”

“Khan, you know him not.”

“Not only I, but you yourself shall soon know him.  But let us begin with what regards Seltanetta.  You know she cannot ever remain unmarried.  This would be a disgrace to my house:  and let me tell you candidly, that she has already been demanded in marriage.”

Ammalat’s heart seemed torn asunder.  For some time he could not recover himself.  At length he tremblingly asked, “Who is this bold lover?”

“The second son of the Shamkhal, Abdoul Mousselin.  Next after you, he has, from his high blood, the best right, of all our mountaineers, to Seltanetta’s hand.”

“Next to me—­after me!” exclaimed the passionate Bek, boiling with anger:  “Am I, then, buried?  Is then my memory vanished among my friends?”

“Neither the memory, nor friendship itself is dead in my heart; but be just, Ammalat; as just as I am frank.  Forget that you are the judge of your own cause, and decide what we are to do.  You will not abandon the Russians, and I cannot make peace with them.”

“Do but wish—­do but speak the word, and all will be forgotten, all will be forgiven you.  This I will answer for with my head, and with the honour of Verkhoffsky, who has more than once promised me his mediation.  For your own good, for the welfare of Avar, for your daughter’s happiness, for my bliss, I implore you, yield to peace, and all will be forgotten—­all that once belonged to you will be restored.”