"There will come a time when he himself will forget it. When he sees that the thing is done, he will cast aside his inflexibility; his heart is not stone; and even were it stone, tears of repentance will wear it away—our caresses will soften him. Happiness will cover us with her dove's wings, and we shall proudly say, 'We ourselves have caught her!'"
"My beloved, I have lived not long upon earth, but something at my heart tells me that by falsehood we can never catch her. Let us wait: let us see what Allah will give! Perhaps, without this step, our union may be accomplished."
"Seltanetta, Allah has given me this idea: it is his will. Have pity on me, I beseech you. Let us fly, unless you wish that our marriage-hour should strike above my grave! I have pledged my honour to return to Derbénd; and I must keep that pledge, I must keep it soon: but to depart without the hope of seeing you, with the dread of hearing that you are the wife of another—this would be dreadful, this would be insupportable! If not from love, then from pity, share my destiny. Do not rob me of paradise! Do not drive me to madness! You know not whither disappointed passion can carry me. I may forget hospitality and kindred, tear asunder all human ties, trample under my feet all that is holy, mingle my blood with that of those who are dearest to me, force villany to shake with terror when my name is heard, and angels to weep to see my deeds!--Seltanetta, save me from the curse of others, from my own contempt—save me from myself! My noúkers are fearless—my horses like the wind; the night is dark, let us fly to benevolent Russia, till the storm be over. For the last time I implore you. Life and death, my renown and my soul, hang upon your word. Yes or no?"
Torn now by her maiden fear, and her respect for the customs of her forefathers, now by the passion and eloquence of her lover, the innocent Seltanetta wavered, like a light cork, upon the tempestuous billows of contending emotions. At length she arose: with a proud and steady air she wiped away the tears which, glistened on her eyelashes, like the amber-gum on the thorns of the larch-tree, and said, "Ammalát! tempt me not! The flame of love will not dazzle, the smoke of love will not suffocate, my conscience. I shall ever know what is good and what is bad; and I well know how shameful it is, how base, to desert a father's house, to afflict loving and beloved parents! I know all this—and now, measure the price of my sacrifice. I fly with you—I am yours! It is not your tongue which has convinced—it is my own heart which has vanquished me! Allah has destined me to see and love you: let, then, our hearts be united for ever—and indissolubly, though their bond be a crown of thorns! Now all is over! Your destiny is mine!"
If heaven had clasped Ammalát in its infinite wings, and pressed him to the heart of the universe—to the sun—even then his ecstacy would have been less strong than at this divine moment. He poured forth the most incoherent cries and exclamations of gratitude. When the first transports were over, the lovers arranged all the details of their flight. Seltanetta consented to lower herself by her bed-coverings from her chamber, to the steep bank of the Ouzén. Ammalát was to ride out in the evening with his noúkers from Khounzákh, as if on a hawking party; he was to return to the Khan's house by circuitous roads at nightfall, and there receive his fair fellow-traveller in his arms. Then they were to take horses in silence, and then—let enemies keep out of their road!
A kiss sealed the treaty; and the lovers separated with fear and hope in heart.
Ammalát Bek, having prepared his brave noúkers for battle or flight, looked impatiently at the sun, which seemed loth to descend from the warm sky to the chilly glaciers of the Caucasus. Like a bridegroom he pined for night, like an importunate guest he followed with his eyes the luminary of day. How slowly it moved—it crept to its setting! An interminable space seemed to intervene between hope and enjoyment. Unreasonable youth! What is your pledge of success? Who will assure you that your footsteps are not watched—your words not caught in their flight? Perhaps with the sun, which you upbraid, your hope will set.
About the fourth hour after noon, the time of the Mozlem's dinner, the Sultan Akhmet Khan was unusually savage and gloomy. His eyes gleamed suspiciously from under his frowning brows; he fixed them for a long space, now on his daughter, now on his young guest. Sometimes his features assumed a mocking expression, but it again vanished in the blush of anger. His questions were biting, his conversation was interrupted; and all this awakened in the soul of Seltanetta repentance—in the heart of Ammalát apprehension. On the other hand, the Khánsha, as if dreading a separation from her lovely daughter, was so affectionate and anxious, that this unmerited tenderness wrung tears from the gentle-hearted Seltanetta, and her glance, stealthily thrown at Ammalát, was to him a piercing reproach.
Hardly, after dinner, had they concluded the customary ceremony of washing the hands, when the Khan called Ammalát into the spacious court-yard. There caparisoned horses awaited them, and a crowd of noúkers were already in the saddle.
"Let us ride out to try the mettle of my new hawks," said the Khan to Ammalát; "the evening is fine, the heat is diminishing, and we shall yet have time, ere twilight, to shoot a few birds."