Iskander loved after the manner of lions.

  A good Mussulman, a true believer, has no conception of what we call perfect love; Iskander was purely enraged, he wanted Kassime that very moment, without delay, instantly.

  He was one of the readers that skip the preface of a book and proceed immediately to the first chapter.

  Terrible people for authors and uncles!

  But Iskander very soon reached the conclusion that he might vainly roll on his rug all day long, roar a whole week, howl for a month, and it would not bring him a hair’s breadth nearer to Kassime.

  He must bestir himself, then.

  Finally, by dint of saying over to himself: “Kassime’s uncle,” he was reminded that, if he himself had no uncle, he had an aunt.

  An aunt! Why were aunts made, if it were not to take charge of their nephew’s love affairs?”

  That is all aunts are good for.

  You do not know of an aunt who ever served any other purpose; neither do I.

  He went out and purchased some silk stuff for a dress; then he ran to his aunt’s house.

  The aunt took the dress, listened to the whole story of her nephew’s love affair, and as an aunt, however old she may be, remembers the days when she was young, Iskander’s aunt, sending a sigh after hef own lost youth, promised him to do all in her power to bring about an interview.

  “Come to my house to-morrow, at noon, my child,” she said; “I will send for Kassime, under pretext of darkening her eyes with kohl. I will hide you behind this curtain, you rascal! But be discreet. Do not move, do not breathe, and, above all, beware of whispering a word to any one of what I am doing for you.” As one can well understand, Iskander returned home in high spirits.

  He went to bed at sunset, hoping to sleep, and that the time would pass swiftly while he slept.

  Sleep had been good once upon a time.

  He fell asleep at one o’clock, and awoke at two.

  By seven in the morning he was at his aunt’s house, insisting that it was almost noon.

  At every sound made at the gate he ran and hid behind the curtain.

  Then he would resume his position beside his aunt, shaking his head and saying, —

  “She will not come.”

  Whereupon, falling into a rage, and stamping his foot, he would exclaim, —

  “Ah! if she does not come I will set fire to her uncle’s house; she will have to come out so as not to be burned; then I will seize her, I will put her on my Karabach and run away with her.”

  And each time his aunt would soothe him, saying, — “That could not have been she: it is only nine o’clock — — it is only ten — it is only eleven.”

  But at noon the aunt exclaimed, —

  “Ah! there she comes this time.”

  Iskander, like his aunt, had heard the heels of little Turkish slippers pattering on the paved court, and he had sprung behind his curtain.

  It was indeed she, with her friend Kitchina, — blueeyed Kitchina, as they called her.

  The maidens took off their slippers at the threshold of the door and came in, seating themselves beside the old aunt.

  The two veils fell to the floor. The curtain was agitated; lmppily, neither of the girls looked that way.

  No; they were watching the old aunt, who was stirring with a small ivory stick the kohl at the bottom of a little silver jar.

  Kassime knelt before the good woman, who first pencilled her eyebrows, then the under-lids; but when Kassime, for the latter operation, raised her beautiful eyes, Iskander felt as if his heart were pierced by a bullet.

  The old woman herself was struck with their wonderful beauty, and in her admiration for the girl, she said, embracing her, —

  “How soon, my pretty Kassime, shall I be painting you in the bath amid the songs of your friends? You have such beautiful eyes that I could wish them each morning to awake tearless and to be sealed every night by a kiss.”

  Kassime sighed, and affectionately kissed the old woman.

  Iskander heard the sigh and felt the warmth of the kiss.

  “My uncle Festahli says that I am too young,” answered Kassime, sadly.

  “And what says your heart?” demanded the old lady.

  Instead of replying, Kassime took down the tambourine hanging on the wall, and sang: —

  “Fair dawn, oh, why did I so early feel

  The dewy coolness of thy wings?

  Fair youth, oh, why this eve did thine eyes steal

  Into my heart their fiery stings?

  “Oh, why, though I have seen in cloudless sky

  Enthroned the god-like shining star, —

  Oh, why, though I have seen from storm-cloud high

  A serpent fire o’erleap heaven’s bar, —

  “Oh, why, since I’ve forgotten dreaded woes

  And longed-for weal, sad earth, gay skies —

  So much forgotten, sun and fire, dawn’s rose —

  Oh, why forget I not thine eyes?”

  While singing the last verse of the song which she was improvising, Kassime blushed to her shoulders; then, laughing like a child, she dropped her tambourine and threw herself into her friend’s arms; and then the two silly young things both began to laugh.

  Why were they laughing, and what was there so laughable in all that?

  But Iskander’s aunt understood very well, and, for the sake of her nephew’s happiness, she determined to bring out the secret of the enigma immediately.

  “O my sweet rose,” she said, playing with Kassime’s rings, “if my nephew could have heard the song you have just sung, he would have staved in the wall to see the singer, and after seeing her, he would have carried her off as a lion does a kid.”

  And just then a jar filled with jasmin water fell from the chest that stood near the curtain and broke into a thousand pieces.

  The old woman faced about; the two young people turned pale.

  “Why did it fall?” asked Kassime in trembling tones. “That devil of a black cat!” exclaimed the old lady; “there was never another like it!”

  Kassime was reassured.

  “Oh, I detest black cats!” said she. “It is said that they sometimes lend their skin to the devil, and that is why we can see their eyes glare in the dark.”

  Then turning to her friend, she said, —

  “Come, Kitchina, mamma allowed me but an hour, and there is the mullah’s call.”

  Kassime rather coldly embraced the old woman, who saw that the reserve was assumed.

  “Nonsense!” said the aunt, accompanying her to the door, “it is useless for you to be angry, Kassime. I should like to see you with flowers upon your head; your happiness is as dear to me as a link of gold, and with a link of gold, I know a young man who would like to bind his soul to yours. But be at ease, my dear child, only Allah, he, and I know the secret.”

  Kassime opened her great eyes, whose size was doubled with amazement, but she was just then at the threshold of the street-door; her friend, who was behind, pushed her gently, the door was shut, and, for all explanation, she heard the key creaking in the lock.

  Iskander Beg fairly stifled his aunt in his arms when she returned from Kassime. The good woman scolded him well because he had not been able to keep still at his post of observation.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, “when that dreadful jar fell I nearly died from fright! Wicked child! it would have been the death of me if Kassime had guessed who made it fall.”

  “Is it my fault, aunt?” cried Iskander; “and could I keep quiet when my heart threatened to burst at sight of the roses that overspread Kassime’s cheeks after you had spoken of me? I longed to gather them with my lips. What could you expect? Who sows must reap!”

  “Not when he sows in another’s garden.”

  “Then buy me this garden, aunt; do not let me expire like a nightingale on the thorns of a rose-bush. Kassime must be my wife; ask her uncle for her, then, without delay, and rest assured that I shall be as grateful as I am loving. Succeed in your embassy, dear aunt, and I promise you the most beautiful pair of buffaloes in Daghestan.”

  On the morrow Iskander Beg received the answer of Mir Hadji Festahli.

  Alas! it was very far from being what he had hoped. Here it is, for that matter; the reader can judge how much of hope it left to poor Iskander.

  “Tell your Iskander, for me,” Festahli had replied to the aunt, “that I have not forgotten his father. His father was a brute. One day, before everybody, he called me, — I will not repeat what he called me; I could take no revenge, because it was just at the time when the Russians were interfering with our customs; but I have not forgotten the offence. I have not burned his coffin. It is proper for the son to pay his father’s debt, and I am no dog to fawn on the hand that has beaten me. But, to tell the truth, had there been no feud between us, Iskander should not have had my niece in any case. A great honor to be the uncle of this beg! There are seventy begs in Derbend just like him; I will give him their names whenever he likes. Why talk to me of a dowry? Yes, faith, by ruining himself, he could pay for my niece; but after that how would he provide for her? Has he any relatives to help him in case of need? How many raven’s-eggs does he get from the rent of his huts? How many bundles of nettles has he reaped in his fields? He is destitute, utterly destitute, your beggar of a nephew. Tell him no, — a hundred times no. I will not have such a good-for-nothing as he is in my family. A head and a purse so empty that with only a breath both head and purse would fly away. Good-evening, old woman!”

  With the knowledge that you already possess of Iskander Beg’s disposition, you can imagine his rage when his aunt brought him this answer, word for word.

  At last, his wrath cooled; and he had sworn to be terribly revenged upon Mir Hadji Festahli.

  Ho was a Tartar.

  This explains why Hadji Festahli was so preoccupied while climbing the streets which led to the dwelling of Iskander Beg; why, in his preoccupation, he spat upon the black beard of Hussein and the red beard of Ferzali, and why, at last, arrived at Iskander Beg’s door, instead of knocking impatiently, he knocked very gently.

  CHAPTER V.

  A BARGAIN.

  Iskander was neither rich nor married: his door, therefore, was quickly opened, not half way, but wide open; for he had no fear that in coming to see him people would see either his wife or his strong-box.

  Hence Iskander received his visitors, not on the threshold, as do Mussulmans who are fathers of a family, but in his innermost room. There was nothing in his house to tempt the pilferer of either hearts or money.

  “Welcome!” he cried from the other side of the door to the arrivals, even before knowing who they were..

  And the door was opened.

  Iskander Beg himself had come to let them in, as his noukar was grooming his horse. He stood amazed at beholding Mir Hadji Festahli and his associates in the street.

  The blood rushed to his head, and his first impulse was to feel for his dagger.

  But, thanks to a violent effort, curiosity overcame the anger within him.

  He respectfully placed his hand upon his heart, bowed to his visitors, and invited them to enter.

  They seated themselves upon the rugs, stroked their beards with oriental gravity, regulated the folds of their garments, and the conversation opened with commonplaces.

  Finally, after five minutes lost in trivialities, Mir Hadji Festahli broached the question.

  He spoke of the misfortunes which threatened Daghestan in general and the town of Derbend in particular, if such a drouth should continue eight days longer.

  At every pause he turned to his companions, as if to ask their support; but it was now their turn to be silent, and if they spat not upon his beard, it was certainly not the desire that was lacking.

  Iskander, on his part, appeared very little moved at the pathetic picture that Mir Iladji Festahli drew of the hardships of the city and province; but from the flush on his face it could be seen that a fire was smouldering in his bosom.

  Finally, Hadji Festahli rounded up his discourse with this threefold lamentation: —

  “Woe! woe! woe to Derbend!”

  “Probably!” answered Iskander.

  “Certainly!” added Hussein.

  “Absolutely!” whimpered Ferzali.

  After which ensued a moment of silence.

  During this pause Iskander looked from one to another of his visitors with questioning glance; but they were dumb.

  Iskander began to be impatient.

  “You have not come, brethren,” said he, “that we might wipe away our perspiration and shed our tears together, and I presume that, on your part, or on the part of those that sent you, — for you impress me as being ambassadors to my august presence, — you have something to say to me of more importance than what you have communicated.”

  “Our brother is possessed of great penetration,” returned Hadji Festahli, inclining his head.

  And then, with an abundance of oriental circumlocution on the honor to Iskander of being the object of such a choice, he recounted what the inhabitants of Derbend were expecting from his devotedness.

  But at that, Iskander’s brow began to cloud threateningly.

  “Strange choice!” he cried with emphasis. “Until now the inhabitants of Derbend, for whom, however, I have fought tolerably well, — though it is true that I fought on my own behalf rather than theirs, — not only have not spoken to me, but they have hardly saluted me. And here they offer me a commission which I was not soliciting and of which I am unworthy. It is true that there are many precipices on the heights of Schach Dagh; true, too, that in the gorges of Schach Dagh are the haunts of the brigand Mullah Nour, that there are ten chances to one of my rolling over a precipice, and twenty to one of my being killed by Mullah Nour; but little it matters to them, — I can be of use to them in this, and they have turned to me. And why, pray, should I, who love warmth and sunshine, ask Allah for clouds and rain? On the contrary, I am delighted that my house is dry, my stable wholesome, and that there is neither fog in the air nor mud in the street. Besides, the sun hatches my raven’s-eggs, and my nettles grow well without rain. You scoffed because I have no grain to reap! Why, having no grain, should I disturb myself about yours? You have maligned my father, you have robbed him, you have persecuted him, you have scorned me, and now, you wish me to risk my life for your sake, and to pray God to have mercy upon you! But I mistake, — doubtless it is for some new affront that you come to me, and, that nothing may be wanting to the insult, the task of making me such a proposition has been confided to this holy man, the respectable Hadji Festahli. They do not load the camel when he is on his feet, but when he kneels; and I, pray observe, am on my feet.”

  And Iskander stood as haughty as a king, as terrible as a god.

  “Now,” said he, “we have a little matter to settle, Hadji Festahli and I will absent ourselves a few moments; excuse us, worthy lords!”

  And he beckoned Hadji Festahli to follow him into an adjoining room.

  Thereupon the face of the holy Mussulman became as long and sombre as a night in autumn. He arose smiling; but, as every one knows, there are two kinds of smiles; one puts out the lips as if to kiss, the other shows the teeth as if to bite.

  They passed together into the next room.

  What black-bearded Hussein and red-bearded Ferzali were talking about meanwhile, we are unable to tell our readers, because we were listening at the keyhole of the room to which Hadji Festahli and Iskander had retired.

  The two enemies returned in a short time with radiant faces; they looked like the two diamond-set medals of the Lion and the Sun, hung side by side on the breast of a Persian Minister.

  Iskander then turned to his other guests and said: — “At first I had certain motives, best known to myself, for not conforming to the desires of the people of Derbend; but the honorable Hadji Festahli, whom God preserve, has given me such excellent reasons for complying that I am now ready to go and bring the snow from the summit of Schach Dagh, at the risk of plunging over precipices and getting my moustache singed by Mullah Nour. Allah is all-powerful, and if an earnest, fervent prayer can touch his heart, I venture to prophesy that it will soften, and that the very clouds will weep so many tears that the earth’s thirst will be quenched not only for this year, but for a year to come. I set out this evening. Pray, — I will act.”

  Then he added: —

  “Time is precious, I will not detain you.”

  The ambassadors thanked Iskander; their feet glided into their slippers and the visitors were gone.

  Iskander was left alone; it was what he wanted. “Well,” cried he, joyfully, when he was sure that no one could hear him, “he is a little better than I took him to be, that old knave of a Hadji Festahli. He could have killed me because my father, one day, before everybody, had called him a son of — no matter what! and now, like a true patriarch, he sacrifices his resentment for the public good, and gives me his niece in exchange for a little snow. Excellent man, that!”

  Hussein and Ferzali, as they went away, were saying: —

  “That Iskander is not a man, but an angel. He was furious against Derbend, enraged against Festahli; but when we had spoken of the wailing and suffering of the poor, he could refuse us no longer.”

  And as for the people, overjoyed that Iskander had given his consent, they began to dance and sing.

  Festahli — laughed in his sleeve.

  “A promise, a promise!” murmured he. “What is a promise, especially when no witnesses are by? He cannot hold me to it; I should have died of shame if I had gone before the people with Iskander’s refusal. And besides, I added, ‘If your journey ends happily/ Now, Iskander has not returned, the paths of Schach Dagh are very steep, and Mullah Nour is very brave. We shall see! We shall see!”

  A very holy man was Mir Hadji Festahli Ismael Ogli! he was a direct descendant of the prophet.

  Iskander kissed his good Karabach from very joy, saying: —

  “They are fools, on my word of honor, to suppose that I am doing all this for the sake of their wheat. Ah! for Kassime, for my beloved, for my adored Kassime, I would climb not only Schach Dagh, but the moon besides! Ibrahim! Give my horse some oats. Oats!”