There was a great concourse already assembled in the prince’s house. It is the custom, you are aware, among the Asiatics to keep open house for all comers on these occasions. They received us with all possible marks of respect, and led us into the guest chamber; but first I took care to notice privately where they put our horses, in case any thing should happen, you know. L.—What are their marriage ceremonies? M.—Nothing very remarkable. First, the mollah reads something out of the Koran, then presents are made to the young couple, and to all their relations; they eat, they drink _busa_; the _zhighitofka_ begins; and there is always some greasy rogue mounted on a lame old rip of a horse, to amuse the worshipful company with his grotesque capers, and his jokes. By and by, when it grows dark, the ball, as we should call it, begins. An old beggar strums upon a three stringed instrument—I forget what they call it; the lads and lasses stand up in two rows opposite each other, clap hands and sing. A girl and a young man then step into the middle space, and sing alternate verses, just whatever comes into their heads, and the rest join in chorus. Petchorin and I were seated in the place of honour, and all of a sudden, our host’s youngest daughter, a girl about sixteen, stepped up to my friend, and sang to him—what shall I call it?—a sort of compliment. L.—But the words, the words,—do you happen to remember them? M.—Well I believe they were something to this effect: ‘Beautiful, in truth, are our young zhighit dancers, and their caftans are richly adorned with silver; but the young Russian officer is more beautiful than they, and his laces are of gold. He towers among them like a poplar, but it is not his destiny to grow and flourish in our garden.’ Petchorin rose and bowed, laying his hand on his forehead and his breast, and requested me to reply for him. I knew their language very well, and translated his answer.