“What is the matter, Iskander?” demanded the Russian. “It strikes me that you have acquitted yourself well of your share of the work, and have nothing to regret.”

  “Hearts of hares!” he muttered. “They march regularly enough when advancing, but in retreat, they are wild goats.”

  “Well, after all,” said the young Russian, “the day seems to be ours.”

  “Of course it is ours; but we have left poor Ishmael over there.”

  “Ishmael?” demanded the officer. “Isn’t that the handsome lad that came to me at the beginning of the fight and begged me to give him some cartridges?”

  “Yes; he was the only one I loved in all Derbend; an angelic soul. He is lost!”

  And lie wiped away a single tear that trembled upon his eyelid and could not decide to fall.

  “Is he captured?” inquired the Russian.

  “He is dead!” answered Iskander. “Braver than a man, he had all the imprudence of a child. He wanted to pick a bunch of grapes, and he cleared the space separating him from the vines. He lost his head by it. Before my eyes, the Lesghians cut his throat. I could not help him; there were ten men to deal with. I killed three of them, that was all I could do. Just now they are retreating; they are insulting his body, the wretches! Come,” cried he, turning to three or four Tartars who stood listening, “who of you still has some love, fidelity, and courage in his soul? Let him return with me to rescue the body of a comrade.”

  “I will go with you myself,” announced the Russian officer.

  “Let us go,” said two of the Tartars also.

  And they four rushed upon the band of Lesghians, who, not expecting this sudden attack, and believing that these four men were followed by a much greater number, retreated before them; and they advanced to the boy’s body, took it up, and bore it back to the town.

  At her gate, the mother was waiting. She threw herself upon the decapitated body with heart-rending shrieks and tears.

  Iskander gazed at her, his eyebrows drawn together; and now it was not a single tear that trembled alone upon his eyelid, — there were streams of them coursing down his cheeks like waters from a fountain.

  A mother’s despair melted this lion’s heart.

  “How unfortunate that you are not a Russian!” said the officer, extending his hand.

  “How fortunate that you are not a Tartar!” replied Iskander, grasping the hand.

  One thing is well known: the moustache, which is an indication of approaching maturity, is likewise the herald of love.

  Iskander had not escaped the universal law. Every hair of his moustache had sprouted upon his lip at the very instant that a desire had sprung up in his heart, — — desires vague as yet, inexplicable to himself, but, like orange boughs, bearing on the same branch both fruit and flowers. Why do women like the moustache so much? Because, the symbol of love, it springs from the same source, and crisps in the warmth of desire. What seeks the youth with head erect, humid eye, smiling face, and ruby lip under the budding moustache?

  Neither honors nor fortune, — only a kiss.

  A virgin moustache is a bridge thrown across two loving mouths; a moustache —

  Let us leave the moustaches here, they are carrying us too far; then, too, why, with gray moustache, talk ot black or blonde?

  Besides, moustaches, of whatever color, lead me from my subject.

  I return, then.

  In the month of the preceding April, Iskander had, according to his custom, set out for the chase. The day was beautiful; it was a true spring holiday; it was warm without heat, fresh without humidity. Iskander plunged into the midst of an ocean of verdure and flowers. He had now, for several hours, been going from gorge to gorge, from mountain to mountain; he wanted something, he knew not what. For the first time the air seemed difficult to breathe, for the first time, his heart beat without cause; his unquiet breast fluttered like a woman’s veil.

  And, speaking of veils, let us note a fact.

  When Iskander formerly passed through the streets of Derbend, he would never have cast a look toward a woman, had she been unveiled to her girdle; while, on the contrary, from the very day on which he was able to twist the ends of his little black moustache between his fingers, every nose-tip, every lip, every brown eye or blue that he could catch a glimpse of through a peephole in a veil, turned him hot and cold at once. It is a positive fact that he had never studied anatomy; well, in spite of his ignorance, he could picture to himself a woman from the toe of her slipper to the top of her veil, not only without error but even without oversight, merely from catching sight of a little silk-stockinged foot in a velvet slipper under a kanaos trouser embroidered with gold or silver.

  I will not tell you whether, on this occasion, his hunt was successful; I will say only that the hunter was very distrait, — so distrait that, instead of seeking the lonely haunts where pheasant and partridge are wont to hide, he turned his horse toward two or three hamlets where he had absolutely no business.

  But the day was fine, and, whether standing at their gates, or sitting on the house-tops, he hoped to see one of those pretty little contemporaneous animals that he had reconstructed with as much precision as the learned Cuvier had reconstructed a mastodon, an ichthyosaurus, a pterodactyl, or any other antediluvian monster.

  Unfortunately, he had to be content with the specimens already known. Women were at their gates, women were on the terraces; but the Mohammedan women, who sometimes put aside their veils for unbelievers, never lift them for their compatriots. The result was that the desires of Iskander Beg, not finding a face upon which to fix themselves, were scattered to the winds.

  The young man became sad, drew a profound sigh, threw the bridle on his horse’s neck, and left him master to go what way he would.

  This is what travellers and lovers ought always to do when they have an intelligent horse.

  The horse knew a delightful road leading home; on this road, under some tall plane-trees, was a spring forming a pool, at which he was in the habit of slaking his thirst: he took this route.

  Iskander Beg paid no attention as to what path his horse was taking.

  Little it mattered to him; he was riding in a dream.

  And along with him, on both sides of the road, stalked all sorts of phantoms; these were women, all veiled it is true, but their veils were so carelessly worn that not one of them prevented his seeing what should have been unseen.

  Suddenly Iskander reined in his horse; his vision seemed turned into reality.

  At the edge of the spring was hidden a girl of fifteen or sixteen years, more beautiful than he had ever dreamed a woman could be. With the pure water she was cooling her beautiful face, which the April sun had tinted like a rose; then she gazed at herself in the shimmering mirror, smiled, and took so much pleasure in seeing herself smile, that she saw nothing else, listening the while to the birds that sang above her head, and hearing only their songs, which seemed to say: “Gaze into the fountain, beautiful child! Never was flower so fresh as thou mirrored there before; never will flower so fresh as thou be mirrored after thee!”

  They doubtless said it to her in verse; but I am obliged to tell it in prose, not knowing the rules of poetry in bird language.

  And they were right, the feathered flatterers; it was hard to imagine flower fresher, purer, more beautiful than this one which appeared to have sprung up from the edge of the pool in which it was reflected.

  But it was one of those human blossoms that Granville knows so well how to paint, — with black locks, eyes like stars, teeth like pearls, cheeks like peaches; the whole enveloped, not by one of those thick, ill-advised veils that conceal what they cover, but by a gauze so fine, so silky, so transparent, that it seemed woven from the filmy beams which Summer shakes from her distaff when Autumn comes.

  Then if the imprudent eye descended in a straight line from her face, that was indeed another matter. After a neck, which might have served as a model for the Tower of Ivory of Scripture, came —

  Undoubtedly what came after and was half hidden by a chemise of white maufe, embroidered with blue, and. an arkabouke of cherry satin, was very beautiful, since poor Iskander could not repress an exclamation of delight.

  The cry had no sooner escaped him than Iskander wished that he had been born dumb; he had driven himself out of Paradise.

  The girl had heard the exclamation; she turned around and uttered a cry on her part; over her transparent veil she threw a thick one, and ran, or, rather, flew away, twice gasping the name of Iskander Beg.

  He, stricken dumb when it was too late, motionless when perhaps he would have run, his arms extended, as if to stay the reality which, in fleeing, again melted into a vision, stood breathless with staring eyes, like Apollo watching the flight of Daphne.

  But Apollo very quickly darted forth upon the track of the beautiful nymph, while Iskander Beg did not budge so long as he was able to catch a glimpse through the thicket of a hand’s breadth of that white veil.

  And when it was lost to view he became much agitated, for he felt then as if life, a moment suspended, was returning in waves upon him, rudely and noisily invading his heart.

  “Allah!” murmured he, “what will they say of her and of me if any one has seen us? — How beautiful she is! — She will be scolded by her parents. — What lovely black eyes! — They will think that we had planned a rendezvous! — What lips! — She knows my name; twice as she ran she cried: ‘Iskander! Iskander!’”

  And he again sank into his revery, if a state can be called a revery in which the blood is boiling, while harps are ringing in one’s ears, and when all the stars of heaven are seen in broad daylight.

  Most certainly would night have surprised Iskander on the borders of the pool, into whose waters his heart seemed to have fallen, had not the horse, feeling his bridle, tightened for an instant, gently relax, continued on his way without consulting his rider.

  Iskander reached home madly in love.

  We are sorry indeed not to have found either time or space in this chapter to tell why Iskander bore malice to Mir Hadji Festahli; but we promise our readers, positively, to tell them in the following chapter.

  CHAPTER IV.

  IN WHICH ISKANDER LEARNS THE NAME OF HER WHO KNOWS HIS.

  AND yet Iskander recalled his father’s words..His father had been wont to say: “The loveliest rose lasts but a day, the smallest thorn endures a lifetime. Caress women, but do not love them if you would not become their slave. Love is sweet only in song; but in reality its beginning is fear; its middle, sin; and its end, repentance.”

  And to these three sentiments he added a fourth, their fitting complement: “Look not upon the wives of other men, and listen not to your own.”

  Let us hasten to add, to Iskander’s credit, that he forgot all these precepts in less than five minutes.

  The young Tartar loved and was afraid. The first part of his father’s premonition, “The beginning of love is fear,” was then fulfilled in him.

  Eight days before, poor Iskander had slept so tranquilly, the night had seemed so short and refreshing.

  Now he tossed about upon his mattress; he bit his pillow; his silk coverlet stifled him.

  But who was she?

  At this question, which he had put to himself for the tenth time, Iskander leaped from his bed to his feet.

  She! what a villanous word!

  Love tolerates no pronouns, and especially love in Daghestan.

  Until he knew her true name, Iskander would give her a fictitious one.

  “I must know the name of my — Leila,” said he, thrusting his kandjiar into his girdle; “I shall die, perhaps, but I will know her name.”

  A moment later he was in the street.

  Probably the devil left one of his serpents at Derbend’: to some he takes the form of ambition, — how many celebrated men have disputed the possession of Derbend! to others he goes in the guise of love, — how many young people have lost their wits at Derbend!

  The latter serpent, decidedly, had bitten Iskander Beg.

  He wandered up and down the streets, looked through every gate, scanned every wall and every veil.

  It was all in vain.

  Whom could he ask for her name? Who would point out her house?

  His heart’s eagerness urged him forward.

  “Go!” it bade him.

  Where? He did not know.

  He joined the crowd; the crowd conducted him to the market-place.

  If he had wished to learn the price of meat, he was in a fair way; but the name of his beloved? No!

  He approached an Armenian. The Armenians know everybody, dealing in everything.

  This one was selling fish.

  “Buy a fine chamaia, Iskander Beg,” said the Armenian.

  The young man turned away in disgust.

  At last he approached the shop of a goldsmith, a skilful enameller.

  “God save you!” said he to the Tartar.

  “May Allah grant yon happiness!” responded the goldsmith, without raising his eyes from a turquoise that he was mounting in a ring.

  On the counter behind which the goldsmith was working stood a copper sebilla, filled with different objects more or less precious.

  Iskander Beg uttered a cry.

  He had just recognized an earring which he was certain of having seen, the day before, swinging in the ear of his unknown.

  His heart gave a leap; it seemed to him that he had just learned the first letter of her name.

  It was as if he saw her pretty little hand with the pink nails beckoning to him.

  He dared not speak a word. He hesitated to put a question; he did not know what to say; his voice trembled, his thoughts were in a tumult.

  Suddenly a light flashed across his brain.

  He had hit upon a truly military ruse, — one of those that capture cities.

  He emptied the cup into his hand, as if to look at the jewels. The goldsmith, who had recognized him, allowed him to do so.

  He adroitly withdrew the earring from the heap of jewels, slipped it into his pocket, and suddenly ejaculated, —

  “There! I have dropped an earring!”

  And he replaced the other jewels in the cup.

  “What earring!” demanded the merchant.

  “The one with little bells on it.”

  “Par Allah! pick it up quickly, Iskander; I would not have that lost for five hundred roubles.”

  “Oh! it is not lost,” said Iskander.

  Then, after a pause, he said, —

  “It is very strange, though, that I do not see it anywhere.”

  “One loses sight of a thing as it falls,” said the merchant, laying down the ring upon which he was working; and rising, he looked under his bench as he raised his spectacles.

  Iskander stepped about feigning to search.

  “I do not find it,” said he.

  Then, a moment later, lie added, —

  “It is certainly lost.”

  This time the goldsmith took his spectacles from his forehead and laid them on his table.

  “Allah!” he exclaimed, “what have you done, Iskander Beg?”

  “I have lost an earring, that is all.”

  “But you don’t know what will happen to me. That old rascal of a Hadji Festahli is capable of bringing suit against me. An earring of Baku enamel!”

  “On my soul, you are laughing at me, Djaffar. Do you expect me to believe that a man as serious as Hadji Festahli, a descendant of Mahomet, a saint, wears earrings?”

  “And who says that he wears earrings?”

  “He has neither wife nor daughter, that I know of at least.”

  “He is too stingy for that, the old miser! But it is as much as ten years now since his brother Shafy fled into Persia, leaving him his wife and daughter. The little girl was only six years old then, she is sixteen now.”

  “It must be she! it must be she!” murmured Iskander under his breath.

  Then he asked aloud, — — ”What is she called — this niece?”

  “Kassime,” replied the goldsmith.

  “Kassime, Kassime,” repeated Iskander to himself.

  And the name seemed to him far prettier than Leila, which he discarded as one throws away a lemon from which he has squeezed all the juice.

  “And since her father’s departure,” he added aloud, “I presume that the little one has grown.”

  “You know our country, Iskander: the child of one year looks as though it were two; a girl of five appears to be ten. Our young girls are like the grape-cuttings which are scarcely planted before the grapes are ripe; I have never seen her, but her uncle says that she is the prettiest girl in Derbend.”

  Iskander Beg tossed the earring into the goldsmith’s hand and darted off like an arrow. He knew all that he wished to know, — the name and dwelling of his lady fair.

  He ran straight to the house of Hadji Festahli. He did not hope to see Kassime, but perhaps he should hear her voice; then, who knows? she might be going out with her mother, perhaps, and, whether he saw her or not, she would see him. She would certainly suspect that he was not there to get a glimpse of her uncle.

  But, as usual, old Hadji Festahli’s house was shut up; Iskander foresaw one drawback, — it was, in all Derbend, the most difficult house to enter.

  He heard, not Kassime’s voice, but a dog’s bark, and it was redoubled every time that he drew near the gate. Finally, the gate opened.

  But an abominable old hag emerged, broom in hand.

  She was some old witch, doubtless, going to her vigil.

  She did not even have the trouble of shutting the gate behind her; it closed quite of itself, one would have thought had he not heard a hand push the bolts.

  Iskander had resolved to remain there until evening, until the next morning, until Kassime came out. But his presence could not fail to be remarked, and his presence would announce openly to Hadji Festahli: “I love your niece; hide her more carefully than ever.”

  He returned home, and threw himself down upon a rug.

  There, as he was no longer afraid of being seen or even heard, he threshed about, lie roared, he bellowed.