"Upon my word, this boy is wide-awake, considering how little he has seen yet of the world. Cator, like Cato, thou reasonest well. Go ahead, my son, we hearken thee."
"You see, Captain," said the young man, feeling abashed in the presence of such renown, and doubtful about some chaff in its palm; "you see, I should never care to offer you advice. It might be in place with Mr. Cranleigh here, because he is only a young beginner. But you know what's what, I should say, ever so much better than I do. But as you tell me to go on, I will. Her Serene Highness intends to make away with her twin-brother, on Monday next."
"Come now, come now! I can stand a great deal, Cator. And none of your butter-Scotch—no, you are a Shropshire man, you say. Whatever you are, it won't make that go down. Why, Old Moore, and Zadkiel would be nothing to you."
"Captain, I will tell you what I go by, and then you'll be able to judge for yourself, whether I talk bunkum, or good sense. I have been in these parts for a twelvemonth now, and I ought to know something of these blessed natives. There are no two lots of them quite alike, any more than two mountains or two valleys are. But there is not a pin to choose among them in the matter of laziness. Poor beggars, they can scarcely help that, I dare say, frozen as they are for half the year, and roasted for the other half. Well, about here the manner is to keep three holidays, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, just as if they did anything on the other four days. These Ossets about here have no religion of any sort worth speaking of. Some call themselves Christians, some Mahometans, many are simple idolaters; but all are full of superstition, as such people must be. All they do in the religious way, is to stick to their fasts and festivals, particularly the festivals. And their great festival of the year finishes up next Sunday."
"What the deuce has that got to do with it?" Strogue enquired impatiently, for the sun was beginning to slope along the valley, and we had ten miles to go to the next covered place.
"Everything, if you will hear me out. That festival goes on for three weeks; and during that time it is not lawful to follow up even the blood-feud. But on Monday, it will be the proper thing to stick and stab all who are waiting for it. And what makes me think that this little game is on, according to institution, is that we have not seen a living soul, except an old woman and a child or two, in the miserable villages we have come by. Why? For the very simple reason that every noble savage who can swing a dagger is off for this great act of faith on Monday; to see the death of the head of the clan avenged."
"I won't believe a word of it," I exclaimed, meaning no rudeness of course to Cator, but scouting the possibility of such fiendish abominations, after all I had heard of the great man's lofty hopes and pure ideals.
"To me it seems likely enough," said Strogue. "I have been among fellows who would eat their mothers, and serve up their own babies for a garnish. We have none of that sort to deal with here; and the men of these mountains, taking them all round, are an indolent rather than a cruel lot. Quarrelsome of course, and hot of blood, but most loyal to their chiefs, and very generous sometimes. It is the blood-feud that makes devils of them; but how can they help that? It is their test of honour, ever since they came out of the Ark with the raven. What we have got to do is to act exactly as if all our friend Cator suggests were the fact. Thursday to-day; there is little time to lose, even if we can catch it up at all. We shall want every son of an emerald of you; and you must fight like sons of the Emerald Isle. By Jove, what a ripping turn-up it will be! Right about face, quick march for Kazbek!"
It was all very well for him, and Cator, and the rest to take things lightly thus. They could not be expected to feel much concern for the Lesghian Chief, or a Lesghian lady even more adorable. And as for Strogue his main object was less to rescue Sûr Imar, than to wreak his own vengeance upon Hafer—that is to say the London Hafer, the one who had leaped the ivied wall, and shot at me, and robbed the Captain, by some blackleg's process, of £300.
But I (with my warm affection and deep pity for the father, and passionate love of the daughter) could see no adventurous joy or fierce delight in the issue impending. I wanted no revenge, no compensation for anything done against me. Hafer the genuine, and Hafer the counterfeit, might settle their claims to the title as they pleased; even that most malignant and awful woman—if she were as black as she was painted—the Princess Marva might live her life out, and give the best account of it when her time came; if only she could be kept from harming her relatives so innocent. There must be in her motives something more than we could see. Revenge alone for the loss of a husband, with whom she had lived on the worst of terms, and who had wronged her on the tenderest point—that, and the time-worn grievance about the refusal of her marriage-portion were not enough to drive her to such a horrible and unnatural deed as—unless we wronged her most shamefully—she was now in cold blood designing. There must be some other strong motive too, some great temptation of self-interest, some of that stern, sour stuff which drives us out of the hive that should be sweet to us.