He calculated the distance with the cool eye of a mountaineer, straightened his arms to diminish this distance by their entire length, and let himself drop vertically upon the rock.

  He stood on this granite pedestal like a bronze statue of Volition.

  He was saved, at least for the time being; but to avoid dizziness, he was obliged to close his eyes for an instant.

  He was not long in opening them again to note his surroundings and seek an issue.

  This rocky excrescence, if it may be so called, was sloping on the outer side, slippery, crumbling in places, and yet practicable to the foot of a mountaineer.

  Clinging with hands and feet, Iskander succeeded in achieving a semi-circle around the immense column.

  He then found that he was on the farther side of the ravine.

  To go back by the way that he had just come was impossible. It would have been like climbing a wall.

  There remained, then, but the one recourse of descending to the foot of the precipice and then following the torrent until he should find a practicable path.

  But Iskander Beg was tormented by one idea, — to learn what had become of Mullah Nour.

  A brave man, after all, was Mullah Nour, out-and-out brigand that he was. If lie were merely hurt, he must receive assistance; if dead, his body must be saved from the teeth of wild beasts.

  For any one other than Iskander or a mountaineer born on the side of a precipice, such a descent would have been impossible.

  Iskander undertook it.

  The road, or rather the path, by which he had come with his horse, was cut off, as we have said, by a deep gorge spanned by the ice-bridge, which had broken from under the horses’ feet. He gained the steep side of the gash-like cleft and made its descent, aided by the projections of its rugged surface.

  It took more than an hour to advance a quarter of a verst.

  At last he reached the bottom; then only did he dare to look above his head.

  Mullah Nour, falling from a height of five hundred feet perhaps, had crashed through several bridges of ice, superposed one above another, and had ended by plunging into a vast bed of snow, from which the torrent gushed as from a glacier.

  This snow, without possessing the firmness of rock or ice, could yet sustain a man’s weight.

  Iskander ventured upon it, at the risk of being engulfed. Only a pale, wan light penetrated the cleft. It was gloomy and cold.

  He soon saw, by the line through the broken bridges above his head, that he must be nearing the spot where Mullah Nour had fallen.

  The fall of horse and rider had indented an immense funnel in the snow.

  Iskander carefully lowered himself into it and found resistance under his feet.

  He had come upon the horse, whose neck was broken.

  He searched for the man and found an arm. He drew the arm toward him, making the horse his vantage ground, and succeeded in drawing the body out of the snow in which it was buried.

  Mullah Nour was like one dead, — his eyes were closed, he did not breathe.

  However, no limb was broken; no serious wound was apparent. In accordance with the laws of gravity, the animal’s fall had preceded the man’s, clearing a path for him. The horse had saved the rider.

  Iskander succeeded in loading the body upon his shoulders, in getting out of the snow-funnel, and gaining the bottom of the valley.

  He rubbed Mullah Nour’s face with his rough cloak; he slapped the palms of his hands and threw ice-cold water into his face.

  Mullah Nour remained unconscious.

  “Just wait,” muttered Iskander; “if you are not dead, I know how to waken you.”

  He sat down, placed Mullah Nour’s head upon one of his knees, loaded his pistol and fired beside his ear.

  The report echoed like a clap of thunder.

  Mullah Nour opened his eyes and moved a hand toward his kandjiar.

  “Ah! I was sure of it!” murmured Iskander.

  Mullah Nour’s hand was unable to execute its design, and fell back at his side.

  His eyes stared vacantly; his mouth essayed to articulate some sound, but his tongue would not obey.

  At last he breathed a sigh; thought, returning to his brain, lighted up his eyes with the fire of intelligence. His gaze fixed itself upon Iskander; he recognized him, understood that to him he owed his life. With an effort he whispered, —

  “Iskander Beg!”

  “Ah!” said the latter, “this is very lucky. Yes, Iskander Beg, who is not willing that you shall die — do you understand? — because you are a brave man; because jackals and foxes are common, but lions are rare.”

  A tear sprang to the brigand’s stern eye; he pressed Iskander’s hand.

  “After God,” said he, “I owe you my life; to you, then, as to God, is due my eternal gratitude. It is not for my life that I thank you, but for your having endangered yours to save mine. Men have insulted, scorned, betrayed me; I owe them ill-will; I have paid them in hatred. Nature has endowed me with many wicked instincts; men have attributed to me more than nature gave; but neither my friends nor my enemies can accuse Mullah Nour of being an ingrate. Listen, Iskander,” added the bandit, raising himself a little, “misfortune follows every one; possibly it may some day overtake you. My heart and hand are at your service, Iskander, — a heart and hand that fear nothing in the world. I would sell and cut off my head to save you. For the rest, you shall judge me by my deeds. Let us see now how much I am hurt.”

  The bandit tried to rise, and after a few attempts, he found himself upon his feet. He felt of his arms, first one and then the other; then his thighs, then his legs; took a few steps, unsteadily, it is true, but still a few steps.

  “My head,” said he, “is still a little light, but nothing is the matter with the rest of me, by my faith! Come, let us go! Allah has preserved me! it would seem that I am still necessary to his designs on earth.”

  “And now,” asked Iskander, “how do we get out of here!”

  “You are putting me to it,” said Mullah Nour; “but I am forced to say what is so hard for men to admit, — I do not know.”

  “Yet we cannot die of hunger here,” said Iskander.

  “Before dying of hunger, we would first eat my horse, then yours; for, as I was falling, although I could not see much, I saw him ready to follow me.”

  “No, fortunately,” said Iskander, with a feeling of real joy, “my poor Karaback was saved. And hark! by Allah! he is neighing!”

  Both turned in the direction of the neighing, and they saw the horse coming toward them, following the bed of the stream.

  “On my faith,” said Mullah Nour, “you were asking how we should get out of here; your horse is answering us. He must be the devil if we cannot go up the way he came down.”

  Overjoyed, Iskander went to meet his horse. The latter, in turn, ran to his master as rapidly as the difficult road permitted.

  When horse and master were side by side, the man put his arms around the animal’s neck and kissed him as he would have kissed a friend. The horse whinnied with delight; the man wept for joy.

  “There,” said Mullah Nour, who had looked on with a smile, “now that the meeting is over, if you will ask your horse the way, nothing need detain us here any longer, it seems to me.”

  Iskander sent his horse ahead of them, as if he had been a dog, and doubtless the animal understood the service that was demanded of his intelligence, for he took the very route by which he had come.

  After nearly a demi-verst, he stopped, scented the ground, cast a glance overhead, and, without hesitation, began to ascend the mountain.

  On looking carefully, they discerned a narrow path, scarcely perceptible, worn by the wild goats when descending to drink at the torrent.

  The horse went first.

  “Follow my horse and lay hold of his tail, — I will not say in case your head grows giddy, but in case your legs fail.”

  But Mullah Nour shook his head.

  “I am at home,” he said; “the mountain is my domain. It is for me to do the honors of my house; go first.”

  Iskander followed his horse. At the end of half an hour’s almost impossible climbing, they found themselves upon the path which the bandit had taken in order to intercept Iskander.

  Of course this path led to the platform where Mullah Nour had left Goulchade and her companions.

  The sun was just setting. Goulchade and the brigand’s comrades, not seeing him return within the time that he had fixed, were on the point of starting out to search for him.

  Goulchade threw her arms about her lover’s neck; his comrades gathered round.

  But Mullah Nour put Goulchade aside, waved back his comrades, and made way for Iskander to enter within’ the circle of joyous faces, which overclouded at sight of him.

  “This is my elder brother,” said he to his fellows. “From this time forth you owe him three things which you have sworn to me, — love, respect, and obedience. Wherever he shall meet one of you, he may command you as I myself. Whoever shall render him a service, however small, becomes my creditor, and shall have the right to exact his price with usury. To the one who does him a great service, I shall be beholden forever; but if one of you shall harm a hair of his head, that one shall never be safe from my vengeance, even at the bottom of the sea, or within the tomb; I swear it, — and may the devil claw out my tongue with his nails if I do not keep my oath! Now let us sup.”

  A rug was spread and a scanty meal was served. The anxiety felt by the bandits concerning the absence of their chief had caused them to think little about supper.

  Goulchade, according to the custom of the Tartar women, did not eat with her lover. She stood shyly back, leaning against a rock.

  Iskander noted her tearful sadness; he asked that she should have a place on the rug.

  “It is just,” said Mullah Nour; “this day Goulchade has been a man, and not a woman.”

  The supper ended, Iskander, moved by the beauty of the summer night, touched by the brotherly attentions lavished on him by Mullah Nour, could not retain the secret that tilled his heart. He told his love for Kassime.

  “Oh!” he exclaimed, “if some time I could take wings like.a bird, I would bring Kassime up to this height! I would show her all that makes me sad and ashamed to gaze upon alone, so beautiful it is! I should rejoice in her admiration, and when she would say, ‘It is magnificent!’ I should press her to my heart, answering, ‘It is beautiful, but you are more beautiful; you are better than anything in the world! I love you more than the mountain, more than the valley, more than the streams, more than the whole of Nature!’ See, Mullah Nour, how the earth, softly lighted by the moon, sleeps in the midst of Nature’s myriad smiles. Well, I believe it to be sweeter still for man to fall asleep under the kisses of the woman he loves. You are very fortunate, Mullah Nour; you are as free as the wind. The eagle lends you his wings to fly among the highest peaks. You have a fearless consort; that does not surprise me, but I envy you.”

  Mullah Nour sadly shook his head as he listened to the young man speaking thus upon life’s threshold.

  “To every man his fate,” lie replied; “but mark me, Iskander, envy not mine, and especially follow not my example. It is dangerous to live among men, but it is sad to live without them. Their friendship is like the opium that intoxicates and puts to sleep; but, believe me, it is bitter to live with their hatred. It is not my own will, it is fate that has thrust me outside of their circle, Iskander. A stream of blood separates us, and it is no longer in my power to overleap it. That liberty is a gift from heaven, the most precious of all, I know well; but the outlaw has no liberty, — he has but independence. True, I am lord of the mountain; true, I am king of the plain; but my empire is peopled only with wild beasts. There was a time when I hated men, when I scorned them; to-day, my soul is sick of scorning and hating. I am feared, men tremble at my name; the mother uses it to still her crying babe; but the terror one inspires is but a plaything, of which, like all others, he quickly tires. Undoubtedly, there is a joy in humiliating men, in mocking at all they boast, in exposing their baseness by opening their whited sepulchres. It yields one a moment’s pride; he feels himself more criminal, yet less contemptible than others. That feeling gladdens for an hour and saddens for a month. Man is wicked; but, after all, man is man’s brother. Look about us, Iskander. How vast are the mountains! how green the forests! how rich the lands of Daghestan! yet there is not a cave in the mountain, not a tree in the forest, not a house in the plain where I — can rest my head and tell myself, ‘Here you can sleep tranquilly, Mullah Nour; here an enemy’s ball will not find you in your sleep; here you will not be bound like a wild beast. Your cities are peopled and often gorged with inhabitants; yet, rich or poor, every man has his place, his own roof to shield him from the rain, to shelter him from the cold. As for me, my bourka alone is my roof, my shelter, my cover. The town will not grant me even a bit of earth in which to lay my bones. Sorrow is like the wife of the kahn; she knows how to tread on velvet carpets, but she must also know, like the goat, how to leap from rock to rock. Sorrow is my shadow, and, as you see, my shadow follows me even here.”

  “You have suffered much, Mullah Nour?” Iskander asked, deeply interested.

  “Do not remind me of it, friend. When you pass the gorge into whose depths I fell, and from which you rescued me, do not ask whether it was lightning or frost that ploughed the chasm in the granite, but pass over quickly; the bridge is frail and may give way beneath you. Flowers are planted in gardens, but the dead are not buried there. No, I will not cast a gloom over the morning with the storms of noon-tide. The past is past; it cannot be changed, even by the will of Allah. Good-night, Iskander. And God grant that no one may dream what I have suffered in reality. I will show you to-morrow the shortest way to reach Schach Dagh. Good-night!”

  And he lay down, wrapped in his bourka; the others had been asleep for an hour.

  Iskander waited long for sleep to come; he thought much of the day’s events and Mullah Nour’s solemn words.

  Then, once asleep, he was troubled with the most fearful dreams. Sometimes it seemed as if a ball wore piercing his heart, sometimes as if he were falling into a bottomless abyss.

  Our dreams are but memories of the way we have come, — the confusion and excitement of past events.

  There is but one dreamless sleep, — the deep sleep, death.

  CHAPTER X.

  IN WHICH YUSSEF RELATES WHAT DID NOT HAPPEN, BUT TAKES GOOD CARE NOT TO RELATE WHAT DID HAPPEN.

  THE sun, tinting the mountain-tops, awoke Mullah Nour and his men. All first prostrated themselves in prayer, then they set about polishing their arms, currying their horses, and preparing breakfast.

  “Your travelling companion spent a bad night,” announced Mullah Nour to his guest, with a laugh.

  “What! Yussef?” inquired the latter.

  “Yussef in person.”

  “You know where he is, then?”

  “I have an idea.”

  “I begged you twice yesterday to have him searched for, but you gave me no answer.”

  “Because I knew where to find him.”

  “And where is he?”

  “Fifty paces from here.”

  “What do you intend to do with him?”

  “Nothing at all. I give him to you; you may do what you like with him. Eh! my lads,” continued Mullah Nour, addressing his men, “carry our prisoner something to eat, and say that Mullah Nour does not wish to starve him to death.”

  Then he told Iskander how Goulchade had stopped Yussef, forced him to surrender his arms, and brought him back with her as a prisoner.

  When breakfast was over, Mullah Nour took Iskander by the hand and held him to his heart, and cheek to cheek.

  “You are at home here,” said he; “I shall always greet you with joy, I shall always love you with gratitude. Now I have pointed out a route by which you can ascend Schach Dagh, and the one by which you are to descend; make haste to serve your fellow countrymen. I myself am going in the opposite direction and for another purpose. Adieu! remember Mullah Nour; if you are in need of a friend, summon him, and the avalanche will not more swiftly reach the mountain’s foot than he will reach you.”

  And, like a flight of wild pigeons, the chief and all his band whirled out of sight.

  Iskander then went to the cave.

  Yussef was lying down with his hands tied, his eyes bandaged.

  The young beg could not resist the desire to experiment on the courage of his companion.

  “Get up, and prepare to die!” said he, roughly, disguising his voice.

  Yussef trembled in every limb; but, thanks to a strenuous effort, he managed to get upon his knees.

  He was deathly pale; his nose seemed to have lost that firm base by whose help it ordinarily formed an acute angle with his mouth, an obtuse angle with his chin, and drooped inert over his lips. He raised his hands to heaven and implored pardon between his groans.

  “O Angel Azraël,” he cried, “spare my head, it is not ripe for death! Where and how have I offended you?”

  “It is not my will, it is Mullah Nour’s. He said: ‘Yussef fought-like a tiger; now that Yussef knows my retreat, there is no more safety for me in the mountain. Besides, the blood of my comrades spilled by him at the siege of Derbend cries aloud for vengeance, and it must be taken.’”

  “I!” cried Yussef, “I! I fought in the siege of Derbend? What abominable calumniator says that! Shame befall the tomb of his fathers and of his grandfathers, even to the tenth generation! No, no! I am not the man to fight against my compatriots, not I. When trumpet or drum called to the rampart, for my part I descended at once to the bazaar; and when it was my turn to march, I took refuge in the mosque and slept there honestly and conscientiously, to the glory of the prophet. True, one day I fired three shots; but it is an established fact that the enemy was five versts away. As for my sabre, try yourself to draw it, and if you can get the blade out of its sheath, you may strike off my head with it. Not once, since the days of my father, has it ever been out. And why should I have fought against Kasi Mullah, against a brave, a holy man, a prophet? Had he not cut off the heads of all who drank and smoked, I should be to-day one of his most ardent fanatics.”