The Khan assisted the Bek to extricate himself from the stirrups; but observed with alarm that his efforts had displaced the bandage on Ammalat’s wounded arm, and that the blood was soaking through it afresh.  The young man, it seemed, was insensible to pain; tears were rolling down his face upon the dead horse.  So one drop fills not, but overflows the cup.  “Thou wilt never more bear me like down upon the wind,” he said, “nor hear behind thee from the dust-cloud of the race, the shouts, unpleasing to the rival, the acclamations of the people:  in the blaze of battle no more shalt thou carry me from the iron rain of the Russian cannon.  With thee I gained the fame of a warrior—­why should I survive, or it, or thee?” He bent his face upon his knee, and remained silent a long time, while the Khan carefully bound up his wounded arm:  at length Ammalat raised his head:  “Leave me!” he cried, resolutely:  “leave, Sultan Akhmet Khan, a wretch to his fate!  The way is long, and I am exhausted.  By remaining with me, you will perish in vain.  See! the eagle soars around us; he knows that my heart will soon quiver beneath his talons, and I thank God!  Better find an airy grave in the maw of a bird of prey, than leave my corse beneath a Christian foot.  Farewell, linger not.”

“For shame, Ammalat! you trip against a straw....!  What the great harm?  You are wounded, and your horse is dead.  Your wound will soon healed, and we will find you a better horse!  Allah sendeth not misfortunes alone.  In the flower of your age, and the full vigour of your faculties, it is a sin to despair.  Mount my horse, I will lead him by the bridle, and by night we shall be at home.  Time is precious!”

“For me, time is no more, Sultan Ahkmet Khan ...  I thank you heartily for your brotherly care, but I cannot take advantage of it ... you yourself cannot support a march on foot after such fatigue.  I repeat ... leave me to my fate.  Here, on these inaccessible heights, I will die free and contented ...  And what is there to recall me to life!  My parents lie under the earth, my wife is blind, my uncle and father-in-law the Shamkhal are cowering at Tarki before the Russians ... the Giaour is revelling in my native land, in my inheritance; and I myself an a wanderer from my home, a runaway from battle.  I neither can, nor ought to live.”

“You ought not to talk such nonsense, dear Ammalat:—­and nothing but fever can excuse you.  We are created that we may live longer than our fathers.  For wives, if one has not teazed you enough, we will find you three more.  If you love not the Shamkhal, yet love your own inheritance—­you ought to live, if but for that; since to a dead man power is useless, and victory impossible.  Revenge on the Russians is a holy duty:  live, if but for that.  That we are beaten, is no novelty for a warrior; to-day luck is theirs, to-morrow it falls to us.  Allah gives fortune; but a man creates his own glory, not by fortune, but by firmness.  Take courage, my friend Ammalat....  You are wounded and weak; I am strong from habit, and not fatigued by flight.  Mount! and we may yet live to beat the Russians.”