"Insolent scoundrel, out of my way, or thy mother shall beg thy bones from the jackall and the wind! Thank your luck, Néphtali, that thy father and I have eaten one another's salt; and often have ridden by his side in the battle. Unworthy son! thou art rambling about the roads, and ready to attack the peaceable travellers, while thy father's corse lies rotting on the fields of Russia, and the wives of the Kazáks are selling his arms in the bazar. Néphtali, thy father was slain yesterday beyond the Térek. Dost thou know me now?" "Sultan Akhmet Khan!" cried the Tchetchenetz, struck by the piercing look and by the terrible news. His voice was stifled, and he fell forward on his horse's neck in inexpressible grief. "Yes, I am Sultan Akhmet Khan! but grave this in your memory, Néphtali--that if you say to any one, 'I have seen the Khan of Avár,' my vengeance will live from generation to generation." The strangers passed on, the Khan in silence, plunged, as it seemed, in painful recollections; Ammalát (for it was he) in gloomy thought. The dress of both bore witness to recent fighting; their mustaches were singed by the priming, and splashes of blood had dried upon their faces; but the proud look of the first seemed to defy to the combat fate and chance; a gloomy smile, of hate mingled with scorn, contracted his lip. On the other hand, on the features of Ammalát exhaustion was painted. He could hardly turn his languid eyes; and from time to time a groan escaped him, caused by the pain of his wounded arm. The uneasy pace of the Tartar horse, unaccustomed to the mountain roads, renewed the torment of his wound. He was the first to break the silence. "Why have you refused the offer of these good people? We might have stopped an hour or two to repose, and at dewfall we could have proceeded."