"'Very well,' said Azamat, and galloped to
the village.
"In the evening Grigori Aleksandrovich armed
himself and rode out of the
fortress. How they
settled the business I don't know, but at night
they both returned, and the
sentry saw that
across Azamat's
saddle a woman was lying, bound
hand and foot and with her head wrapped in a
veil."
"And the horse?" I asked the staff-captain.
"One minute! One minute! Early next
morning Kazbich rode over, driving in half a
score of rams for sale. Tethering his horse by
the fence, he came in to see me, and I regaled
him with tea, for,
robber though he was, he was
none the less my guest-friend.
"We began to chat about one thing and
another. . . Suddenly I saw Kazbich start,
change
countenance, and dart to the window;
but
unfortunately the window looked on to the
back
courtyard.
"'What is the matter with you?' I asked.
"'My horse! . . . My horse!' he cried, all
of a tremble.
"As a matter of fact I heard the clattering of
hoofs.
"'It is probably some Cossack who has
ridden up.'
"'No! Urus -- yaman, yaman!'[1] he roared,
and rushed
headlong away like a wild panther.
In two bounds he was in the
courtyard; at the
gate of the
fortress the
sentry barred the way
with his gun; Kazbich jumped over the gun
and dashed off at a run along the road. . .
Dust was whirling in the distance -- Azamat was
galloping away on the mettlesome Karagyoz.
Kazbich, as he ran, tore his gun out of its cover
and fired. For a moment he remained motion-
less, until he had
assured himself that he had
missed. Then he uttered a
shrill cry, knocked
the gun against a rock, smashed it to splinters,
fell to the ground, and burst out sobbing like
a child. . . The people from the
fortressgathered round him, but he took no notice of
anyone. They stood there talking
awhile and
then went back. I ordered the money for the
rams to be placed beside him. He didn't touch
it, but lay with his face to the ground like a
dead man. Would you believe it? He re-
mained lying like that throughout the rest of
that day and the following night! It was only
on the next morning that he came to the
fortressand proceeded to ask that the name of the thief
should be told him. The
sentry who had ob-
served Azamat untying the horse and galloping
away on him did not see any necessity for con-
cealment. At the name of Azamat, Kazbich's
eyes flashed, and he set off to the village where
Azamat's father lived."
[1] "No! Russian -- bad, bad!"
"And what about the father?"
"Ah, that was where the trick came in!
Kazbich could not find him; he had gone away
somewhere for five or six days;
otherwise, how
could Azamat have succeeded in carrying off
Bela?
"And, when the father returned, there was
neither daughter nor son to be found. A wily
rogue, Azamat! He understood, you see, that
he would lose his life if he was caught. So, from
that time, he was never seen again; probably
he joined some gang of Abreks and laid down
his
turbulent life on the other side of the
Terek or the Kuban. It would have served him
right!" . . .
CHAPTER V
"I CONFESS that, for my part, I had trouble
enough over the business. So soon as ever
I
learned that the Circassian girl was with Grigori
Aleksandrovich, I put on my epaulettes and sword
and went to see him.
"He was lying on the bed in the outer room,
with one hand under his head and the other
holding a pipe which had gone out. The door
leading to the inner room was locked, and there
was no key in the lock. I observed all that in
a moment. . . I coughed and rapped my heels
against the
threshold, but he pretended not to
hear.
"'Ensign!' I said, as
sternly as I could. 'Do
you not see that I have come to you?'
"'Ah, good morning, Maksim Maksimych!
Won't you have a pipe?' he answered, without
rising.
"'Excuse me, I am not Maksim Maksimych.
I am the staff-captain.'
"'It's all the same! Won't you have some
tea? If you only knew how I am being
tortured
with anxiety.'
"'I know all,' I answered, going up to the
bed.
"'So much the better,' he said. 'I am not
in a
narrative mood.'
"'Ensign, you have committed an offence for
which I may have to answer as well as you.'
"'Oh, that'll do. What's the harm? You
know, we've gone halves in everything.'
"'What sort of a joke do you think you are
playing? Your sword, please!' . . .
"'Mitka, my sword!'
"'Mitka brought the sword. My duty dis-
charged, I sat down on the bed, facing Pechorin,
and said: 'Listen here, Grigori Aleksandrovich,
you must admit that this is a bad business.'
"'What is?'
"'Why, that you have carried off Bela. . .
Ah, it is that beast Azamat! . . . Come, con-
fess!' I said.
"'But, supposing I am fond of her?' . . .
"Well, what could I say to that? . . . I was
nonplussed. After a short
interval of silence,
however, I told him that if Bela's father were
to claim her he would have to give her up.
"'Not at all!'
"'But he will get to know that she is
here.'
"'How?'
"Again I was nonplussed.
"'Listen, Maksim Maksimych,' said Pechorin,
rising to his feet. 'You're a kind-hearted man,
you know; but, if we give that
savage back his
daughter, he will cut her
throat or sell her. The
deed is done, and the only thing we can do now
is not to go out of our way to spoil matters.
Leave Bela with me and keep my sword!'
"'Show her to me, though,' I said.
"'She is behind that door. Only I wanted,
myself, to see her to-day and wasn't able to.
She sits in the corner, muffled in her veil, and
neither speaks nor looks up -- timid as a wild
chamois! I have hired the wife of our dukhan-
keeper: she knows the Tartar language, and will
look after Bela and
accustom her to the idea
that she belongs to me -- for she shall belong to
no one else!' he added, banging his fist on the
table.
"I assented to that too. . . What could I
do? There are some people with whom you
absolutely have to agree."
"Well?" I asked Maksim Maksimych. "Did
he really succeed in making her grow
accustomed
to him, or did she pine away in
captivity from
home-sickness?"
"Good gracious! how could she pine away
from home-sickness? From the
fortress she
could see the very same hills as she could from
the village -- and these
savages require nothing
more. Besides, Grigori Aleksandrovich used to
give her a present of some kind every day. At
first she didn't utter a word, but haughtily
thrust away the gifts, which then fell to the lot
of the dukhan-keeper's wife and aroused her
eloquence. Ah, presents! What won't a woman
do for a coloured rag! . . . But that is by the
way. . . For a long time Grigori Aleksandro-
vich persevered with her, and
meanwhile he
studied the Tartar language and she began to
understand ours. Little by little she grew
accustomed to looking at him, at first furtively,
askance; but she still pined and crooned her
songs in an undertone, so that even I would feel
heavy at heart when I heard her from the next
room. One scene I shall never forget: I was
walking past, and I looked in at the window;
Bela was sitting on the stove-couch, her head
sunk on her breast, and Grigori Aleksandrovich
was
standing, facing her.
"'Listen, my Peri,' he was
saying. 'Surely
you know that you will have to be mine sooner
or later -- why, then, do you but
torture me?
Is it that you are in love with some Chechene?
If so, I will let you go home at once.'
"She gave a scarcely
perceptible start and
shook her head.
"'Or is it,' he continued, 'that I am utterly
hateful to you?'
"She heaved a sigh.
"'Or that your faith
prohibits you from
giving me a little of your love?'
"She turned pale and remained silent.
"'Believe me, Allah is one and the same for
all races; and, if he permits me to love you,
why, then, should he
prohibit you from requiting
me by returning my love?'
"She gazed fixedly into his face, as though
struck by that new idea. Distrust and a desire to
be convinced were expressed in her eyes. What
eyes they were! They sparkled just like two
glowing coals.
"'Listen, my dear, good Bela!' continued
Pechorin. 'You see how I love you. I am ready