The party were descending a hill bounding another beautiful and romantic vale, on the side of which stood the residence of the aged chief, and had just arrived in sight of a grove of lofty trees surrounding the house, when being perceived from the watch-tower in the neighbourhood, a band of gaily caparisoned youths on horseback, galloped out to meet the chiefs, uttering loud shouts of welcome, and firing off their rifles and pistols as they came on at full speed. Halting at the moment they arrived abreast of the leaders of the party, they respectfully saluted them, exchanging greetings with their younger friends as they passed, and then joined the rear of the cortège.
Along avenue of fine trees led up to the gate of the house, where the aged Prince, clothed in a long robe and turban, (the garb of peace), was standing to receive them, attended by his squire, armed more for state than protection, and by his dependants and household serfs, who hastened to take the horses of the chieftains, as they dismounted.
Folding Arslan Gherrei in his arms, “My noble kinsman,” he said, “welcome are you to my home, for gladly do my old eyes once more look on you; and how did my heart beat with joy when I heard that you had recovered your long lost son. Allah is great, who has shielded him from so many perils in the land of the Giaour, to restore him once more to your bosom. Is yonder noble youth he? Worthy he seems to be a Circassian chief. Let me embrace him,” he added, as Selem, dismounting from his horse, advanced towards the old man.
“Come hither, my son, and let your father’s oldest friend embrace you. Ah! I see in his eye and bearing that he is worthy of you, Uzden. And your other child? your daughter? Come hither, Ina; let my old eyes gaze on thee, too. My own Zara will rejoice to see you. Go to her, Ina; she longs to embrace you, but she fears to quit her anderoon before so many strangers. Ah! my gallant friend, Hadji Guz Beg! rejoiced am I to see the Lion of the Attèghèi returned from his pilgrimage, to spread terror among the hearts of the Urus. And you, Achmet Beg, and you, Alp, who will one day be a hero like your father; and you, chieftains, welcome all.”
Thus he addressed them, as each chief advanced to pay his respects to the old man. “My heart,” exclaimed he, “has not beat so joyfully since the cursed Urus slew the last prop of my age, my only son. Chieftains, I have ordered a banquet to be prepared to do honour to your coming, and it will soon be the hour for feasting.”
Saying which, the venerable noble led the way to a grove of lofty trees in the neighbourhood of the house, under which a fresh green arbour had been erected by his retainers, forming a grateful shade from the yet burning rays of the sun. Divans and carpets had been spread under the leafy bower, the front of which opened on a gentle slope, falling to, a green plot of turf, surrounded by groups of trees. Thither the chiefs were ushered, and when all were seated, according to their rank, their venerable host took his place among them.
Many of the neighbouring nobles had assembled to do honour to the guests of their chief, their numerous attendants forming groups with the villagers and retainers of the host collected before the arbour. The Dehli Khans, or young men, amusing themselves in the mean time, in various athletic sports.
Troops of servants soon appeared hastening to the arbour, bearing tables laden with various dishes of richly dressed meats and fruits, which might well vie in taste with the sumptuous fare of less primitive countries. Bowls of mead and boza were handed round to the guests; for even those professing the Mahomedan faith did not hesitate to drink of the former delicious beverage, nor were spirits and wine wanting, to add to the conviviality of those whose scruples did not prevent their indulging in them.
Minstrels, also, came from far and near to add to the festivity of the occasion; for what feast would be complete without the masters of song? The aged Hassein Shahin, the famed bard of the Attèghèi, he who sang of a hundred fights, which he had himself witnessed, and in some of which he had been engaged, now turned his lyre to a high and martial strain. All voices were silent, every ear intent to catch his words which were as follows:
From Liberty’s harp are the strains you now hear;
Men of Attèghèi rise at the call;
Hark! hark! to its sounds, for the foemen are near,
It summons us warriors all
To fight for the land of our ancestors’ graves,
Who died that their children might never be slaves.
The Russ marches onward with chains in his hand,
To bind our free arms will he try.
His banner’s dark eagle o’ershadows our land,
But we’ve sworn or to conquer or die,
For we fight o’er the sod of our ancestors’ graves,
Whose valiant hearts ne’er would have yielded to slaves.
’Tis Poland’s enslaver with foul bloody hand,
Remember her story of woe!
Her brave sons are captives, or fled their lov’d land,
Beware, or her fate we may know!
Let us swear on the earth of our forefathers’ graves,
That we ne’er will be conquered or yield to those slaves.
Remember we fight for our mountains so green,
For our vales, for our streams’ sparkling tide,
For those fields which our father’s for ages have been,
And where, ever unconquer’d, they died.
Then let not their bones be disturbed in their graves,
By the tread of a Muscovite army of slaves.
See the glorious banner of freedom unfurl’d.
It waves o’er our lov’d native land.
Muster round it, and valiantly prove to the world,
That alone we are able to stand.
As our fathers who lie in their warrior graves,
Fighting died, that their children might never be slaves.
Then curs’d be the traitors who yield to the foe,
And curs’d be the cowards who fly!
May they ne’er while they live, peace or happiness know,
And hated, and scorn’d, may they die!
In lands far away may they rot in their graves,
And their children bear ever the foul mark of slaves!
Now sharpen our spears, well prove each tough bow,
And the swords of our forefathers wield.
Don the armour so often they wore ’gainst the foe,
Seize each rifle and glittering shield,
And their shadows yet hovering over their graves,
Will guard us from foes who would make us their slaves.
Then to arms, then to arms, and this harp shall proclaim
The proud deeds that your valour has done;
And the world shall resound with the praise of your name,
To be handed from sire to son;
And tell of the heroes who lie in their graves,
Who died that the Attèghèi ne’er should be slaves.