Unlucky words! Every thing good, every thing noble, which had arisen anew in Ammalát's breast, was crushed in a moment by them. The thought of treachery--of exile--rushed like a torrent through his whole being "With you!" he replied, with a malicious smile--"with you, and into Russia?--undoubtedly: if you go yourself!" and in a passion of rage he urged his horse into a gallop, in order to have time to prepare his arms; suddenly turned back to meet him; flew by him, and began to ride rapidly in a circle around him. At each stride of his horse, the flame of rage burned more fiercely within him: it seemed as if the wind, as it whistled past him, kept whispering "Kill, kill! he is your enemy. Remember Seltanetta!" He brought his rifle forward from his shoulder, cocked it, and encouraging himself with a cry, he galloped with blood-thirsty decision to his doomed victim. Verkhóffsky, meanwhile, not cherishing the least suspicion, looked quietly at Ammalát as he galloped round, thinking that he was preparing, after the Asiatic manner, for the djigítering (equestrian exercises.) "Fire at your mark, Ammalát Bek!" he exclaimed to the murderer who was rushing towards him. "What mark can be better than the breast of a foe?" answered Ammalát Bek, riding up, and at ten paces' distance pulling the trigger!... the gun went off: and slowly, without a groan, the colonel sank out of his saddle. His affrighted horse, with expanded nostrils and streaming mane, smelt at his rider, in whose hands the reins that had so lately guided him began to stiffen: and the steed of Ammalát stopped abruptly before the corpse, setting his legs straight before him. Ammalát leaped from his horse, and, resting his arms on his yet smoking gun, looked for several moments steadfastly in the face of the murdered man; as if endeavouring to prove to himself that he feared not that fixed gaze, those fast-dimming eyes--that fast-freezing blood. It would be difficult to understand--'twere impossible to express the thoughts which rolled like a whirlwind through his breast. Saphir Ali rode up at full gallop; and fell on his knees by the colonel--he laid his ear to the dying man's mouth--he breathed not--he felt his heart--it beat not! "He is dead!" cried Saphir Ali in a tone of despair. "Dead! quite dead!" "So much the better ... My happiness is complete!..." exclaimed Ammalát, as if awakening from a dream. "Happiness for you--for you, fratricide! If you meet happiness, the world will take to Shaitán instead of Allah." "Saphir Ali, remember that you are not my judge!" said Ammalát fiercely, as he put his foot into the stirrup: "follow me!" "May remorse alone accompany you, like your shadow! From this hour I am not your companion."