All at once—guess what, Asamat!—I heard a horse running along the bank, snorting, whinnying, and pawing the ground. I knew the voice of my Karagos, and it was he, indeed, my trusty comrade! Since that day we are inseparable.’ And I could hear him patting his horse’s polished neck, and calling him by all the endearing names he could think of. ‘If I had a herd of a thousand mares,’ cried Asamat, ‘I would give them every one for your Karagos.’ ‘Like enough; but I would not let him go for them,’ said Kasbitch, with indifference. ‘Hark ye, Kasbitch,’ said Asamat coaxingly. ‘You are a good fellow, you are a brave zhighit; my father, you see, fears the Russians, and will not let me go to the mountains; now give me your horse, and I will do every thing you desire. I will steal you my father’s best rifle, his best shashka—any thing you will. His shashka is a genuine gurda: only hold it out in your hand, and the blade strikes into the flesh of its own accord; and his shirt of mail is as good as yours every bit.’ Kasbitch made no answer. ‘The first time I saw your horse,’ continued Asamat, ‘as it whirled round beneath you, and dashed away with expanded nostrils, the stones flashing fire beneath its hoofs, something, I know not what, seized hold of my soul, and from that moment I could never bear to look at any other. I scorned my father’s best and fleetest steeds, I should have been ashamed to be seen on the back of one of them. I was completely overcome with grief, and would sit pining the livelong day on a rock, and every moment I had before my eyes your black horse, with his stately step, his back straight and smooth as an arrow, and his bright eyes that looked into mine, as if he would speak to me. I shall die Kasbitch, if you will not let me have him.’ Asamat’s voice faltered, and I fancied I heard him crying. Now I must tell you Asamat was a most hardened and vicious chap, from whom there was no forcing a tear, even when he was a nursed child. A scornful laugh was the only answer to his tears. ‘Hear me,’ said Asamat, with a firm voice: ‘My mind is made up for any thing—every thing! Shall I steal my sister for you? How she dances! How she sings! and she embroiders in gold, that it is a wonder to see! The Turkish padisha hardly possesses such a girl—Well! Only say the word. Wait for me to-morrow night in the glen yonder, by the waterfall; I will take her that way as if to the neighbouring hamlet, and she is yours. What say you, is not Bela well worth your courser?’ Kasbitch was silent for a long, long while; at last instead of replying, he began to chant an old ditty, half aloud: