Sultan Akhmet added to this all the particulars necessary to give the story the most probable form; and once or twice instructed the old woman how to introduce them more skilfully.
"Well, recollect every thing accurately, Fatma," said he, putting on his bóurka; "forget not, likewise, with whom you have to do."
"Vallah, billah! let me have ashes instead of salt; may a beggar's tchóurek close my eyes; may" ...
"Do not feed the Shaitáns with your oaths; but serve me with your words. I know that Ammalát trusts you completely; and if, for his good, you will arrange this--he will come over to me, and bring you with him. You shall live, singing, under my wing. But I repeat, if, by chance or on purpose, you betray me, or injure me by your gossiping, I will make of your old flesh a kibab for the Shaitáns!"
"Be easy, Khan! They have nothing to do either for me or with me. I will keep the secret like the grave, and I will _put my sarótchka_[23] on Ammalát."
[23] Give him her feelings--a Tartar phrase.
"Well, be it so, old woman. Here is a golden seal for your lips. Take pains!"
"_Bathóusta, ghez-óusta_!"[24] exclaimed the old woman, seizing the ducat with greediness, and kissing the Khan's hand for his present. The Sultan Akhmet Khan looked contemptuously at the base creature, whilst he quitted the sákla.
[24] Willingly, if you please? Literally, "on my head, on my eyes."
"Reptile!" he grumbled to himself, "for a sheep, for a piece of cloth of gold, thou wouldst be ready to sell thy daughter's body, thy son's soul, and thy foster-son's happiness!"
He did not reflect upon what name he deserved himself, entangling his friend in deceit, and hiring such vile creatures for low slander and for villanous intentions.
_Fragment of a Letter from Colonel Verkhóffsky to his Betrothed_.
Camp near the Village of Kiafir Koumík, August.
... Ammalát loves, and how he loves! Never, not even in the hottest fire of my youth, did my love rise to such a frenzy. I burned, like a censer lighted by a sunbeam; he flames, like a ship set on fire by lightning on the stormy sea. With you, my Maria, I have read more than once Shakspeare's Othello; and only the frantic Othello can give an idea of the tropical passion of Ammalát. He loves to speak long and often of his Seltanetta, and I love to hear his volcanic eloquence. At times it is a turbid cataract thrown out by a profound abyss--at times a fiery fountain of the naphtha of Bakou. What stars his eyes scatter at that moment--what light plays on his cheeks--how handsome he is! There is nothing ideal in him: but then the earthly is grand, is captivating. I myself, carried away and deeply moved, receive on my breast the youth fainting from rapture: he breathes long, with slow sighs, and then casting down his eyes, lowering his head as if ashamed to look at the light--not only on me--presses my hand, and walks away with an uncertain step; and after that one cannot extract a word from him for the rest of the day.