“And I could hear him patting his galloper’s sleek neck with his hand, as he called him various fond names.
“‘If I had a stud of a thousand mares,’ said Azamat, ‘I would give it all for your Karagyoz!’
“‘Yok! [11] I would not take it!’ said Kazbich indifferently.
“‘Listen, Kazbich,’ said Azamat, trying to ingratiate himself with him. ‘You are a kindhearted man, you are a brave horseman, but my father is afraid of the Russians and will not allow me to go on the mountains. Give me your horse, and I will do anything you wish. I will steal my father’s best rifle for you, or his sabre—just as you like—and his sabre is a genuine Gurda; [12] you have only to lay the edge against your hand, and it will cut you; a coat of mail like yours is nothing against it.’
“Kazbich remained silent.
“‘The first time I saw your horse,’ continued Azamat, ‘when he was wheeling and leaping under you, his nostrils distended, and the flints flying in showers from under his hoofs, something I could not understand took place within my soul; and since that time I have been weary of everything. I have looked with disdain on my father’s best gallopers; I have been ashamed to be seen on them, and yearning has taken possession of me. In my anguish I have spent whole days on the cliffs, and, every minute, my thoughts have kept turning to your black galloper with his graceful gait and his sleek back, straight as an arrow. With his keen, bright eyes he has looked into mine as if about to speak!... I shall die, Kazbich, if you will not sell him to me!’ said Azamat, with trembling voice.
“I could hear him burst out weeping, and I must tell you that Azamat was a very stubborn lad, and that not for anything could tears be wrung from him, even when he was a little younger.
“In answer to his tears, I could hear something like a laugh.
“‘Listen,’ said Azamat in a firm voice. ‘You see, I am making up my mind for anything. If you like, I will steal my sister for you! How she dances! How she sings! And the way she embroiders with gold—marvellous! Not even a Turkish Padishah [13] has had a wife like her!... Shall I? Wait for me to-morrow night, yonder, in the gorge where the torrent flows; I will go by with her to the neighbouring village—and she is yours. Surely Bela is worth your galloper!’
“Kazbich remained silent for a long, long time. At length, instead of answering, he struck up in an undertone the ancient song: