With us it is no disgrace to steal in another village—­the shame is, to be found out.  Admire the coolness of our women; the balls are whizzing about like gnats, yet they pay no attention to them!  Worthy wives and mothers of brave men!  To be sure, there would be eternal disgrace to him who could wound a woman, yet no man can answer for a ball.  A sharp eye may aim it; but blind chance carries it to the mark.  But darkness is falling from heaven, and dividing these enemies for a moment.  Let us hasten to my kinsmen.”

Nothing but the experience of the Khan could have saved our travellers from frequent falls in the precipitous descent to the river Ouzen.  Ammalat could see scarcely any thing before him; the double veil of night and weakness enveloped his eyes; his head turned:  he beheld, as it were in a dream, when they again mounted an eminence, the gate and watch-tower of the Khan’s house.  With an uncertain foot he dismounted in a courtyard, surrounded by shouting noukers and attendants; and he had hardly stepped over the grated threshold when his breath failed him—­a deadly paleness poured its snow over the wounded man’s face; and the young Bek, exhausted by loss of blood, fatigued by travel, hunger, and anguish of soul, fell senseless on the embroidered carpets.

* * * * *

POEMS AND BALLADS OF SCHILLER.

No.  VI.

THE LAY OF THE BELL.

“Vivos voco—­Mortuous plango—­Fulgura frango.”

Fast, in its prison-walls of earth,
Awaits the mould of baked clay. 
Up, comrades, up, and aid the birth—­
THE BELL that shall be born to-day! 
And wearily now,
With the sweat of the brow,
Shall the work win its grace in the master’s eye,
But the blessing that hallows must come from high.

And well an earnest word beseems
The work the earnest hand prepares;
Its load more light the labour deems,
When sweet discourse the labour shares. 
So let us ponder—­nor in vain—­
What strength has wrought when labour wills;
For who would not the fool disdain
Who ne’er can feel what he fulfills? 
And well it stamps our Human Race,
And hence the gift TO UNDERSTAND,
When in the musing heart we trace
Whate’er we fashion with the hand.

From the fir the fagot take,
Keep it, heap it hard and dry,
That the gather’d flame may break
Through the furnace, wroth and high. 
Smolt the copper within—­
Quick—­the brass with the tin,
That the glutinous fluid that feeds the Bell
May flow in the right course glib and well.

What now these mines so deeply shroud,
What Force with Fire is moulding thus,
Shall from yon steeple, oft and loud,
Speak, witnessing of us! 
It shall, in later days unfailing,
Rouse many an ear to rapt emotion;
Its solemn voice with Sorrow wailing,
Or choral chiming to Devotion. 
Whatever sound in man’s deep breast
Fate wakens, through his winding track,
Shall strike that metal-crowned crest,
Which rings the moral answer back.