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"'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 fortress

gathered 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 fortress
and 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



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