ed Verkhoffsky.

"I have nothing else to say; but I am much alarmed. I have passed my
life among the Tartars, Colonel, and I am convinced that it is madness
to trust the best of them. A born brother is not safe, while resting in
the arms of a brother."

"This is envy, Captain. Cain has left it as an eternal heirloom to all
men, and particularly to the neighbours of Ararat. Besides, there is no
difference between Ammalat and myself. I have done nothing for him but
good. I intend nothing but kindness. Be easy, Captain: I believe the
zeal of the signal-man, but I distrust his knowledge of the Tartar
language. Some similarity of words has led him into error, and when once
suspicion was awakened in his mind, every thing seemed an additional
proof. Really, I am not so important a person that Khans and Beks should
lay plots for my life. I know Ammalat well. He is passionate, but he has
a good heart, and could not conceal a bad intention two hours together."

"Take care you be not mistaken, Colonel. Ammalat is, after all, an
Asiatic; and that name is always a proof. Here words hide thoughts--the
face, the soul. Look at one of them--he seems innocence itself; have any
thing to do with him, he is an abyss of meanness, treachery and
ferocity."

"You have a full right to think so, my dear Captain, from experience:
Sultan Akhmet Khan gave you a memorable proof in Ammalat's house, at
Bouinaki. But for me, I have no reason to suspect any mischief in
Ammalat; and besides, what would he gain by murdering me? On me depends
all his hope, all his happiness. He is wild, perhaps, but not a madman.
Besides, you see the sun is high; and I am alive and well. I am
grateful, Captain, for the interest you have taken in me; but I entreat
you, do not suspect Ammalat: and, knowing how much I prize an old
friendship, be assured that I shall as highly value a new one. Order
them to beat the march."

The captain departed, gloomily shaking his head. The drums rattled, and
the detachment, in marching order, moved on from its night-quarters. The
morning was fresh and bright; the road lay through the green ramparts of
the mountains of the Caucasus, crowned here and there with forests and
underwood. The detachment, like a stream of steel, flowed now down the
hills, and now crept up the declivities. The mist still rested on the
valleys, and Verkhoffsky, riding to the elevated points, looked round
frequently to feast his eyes with the ever-changing landsc