“You sow words on the wind, djannion (my soul.) Hope, for lovers, is a skein of worsted—­endless.  In cool blood, you do not even trust your eyes; but fall in love, and you will believe in ghosts.  I think that Seltanetta would hope that you could ride to her from your coffin—­not only from Derbend.”

“And how is Derbend better than a coffin to me?  Does not my heart feel its decay, without power to escape it?  Here is only my corpse:  my soul is far away.”

“It seems that your senses often take the whim of walking I know not where, dear Ammalat.  Are you not well at Verkhoffsky’s—­free and contented? beloved as a younger brother, caressed like a bride?  Grant that Seltanetta is lovely:  there are not many Verkhoffskys.  Cannot you sacrifice to friendship a little part of love?”

“Am not I then doing so, Saphir Ali?  But if you knew how much it costs me!  It is as if I tore my heart to pieces.  Friendship is a lovely thing, but it cannot fill the place of love.”

“At least, it can console us for love—­it can relieve it.  Have you spoken about this to the Colonel?”

“I cannot prevail on myself to do so.  The words die on my lips, when I would speak of my love.  He is so wise, that I am ashamed to annoy him with my madness.  He is so kind, that I dare not abuse his patience.  To say the truth, his frankness invites, encourages mine.  Figure to yourself that he has been in love since his childhood with a maiden, to whom he was plighted, and whom he certainly would have married if his name had not been by mistake put into a list of killed during the war with the Feringhis.  His bride shed tears, but nevertheless was given away in marriage.  He flies back to his country, and finds his beloved the wife of another.  What, think you, should I have done in such a case?  Plunged a dagger in the breast of the robber of my treasure!—­carried her away to the end or the world to possess her but one hour, but one moment!  Nothing of this kind happened.  He learned that his rival was an excellent and worthy man.  He had the calmness to contract a friendship with him:  had the patience to be often in the society of his former love, without betraying, either by word or deed, his new friend or his still loved mistress.”

“A rare man, if this be true!” exclaimed Saphir Ali, with feeling, throwing away his reins.  “A stout friend indeed!”

“But what an icy lover!  But this is not all.  To relieve both of them from misrepresentation and scandal, he came hither on service.  Not long ago—­for his happiness or unhappiness—­his friend died.  And what then?  Do you think he flew to Russia.  No! his duty kept him away.  The Commander-in-chief informed him that his presence was indispensable here for a year more, and he has remained—­cherishing his love with hope.  Can such a man, with all his goodness, understand such a passion as mine?  And besides, there is such a difference between us in years, in opinions.  He kills me with his unapproachable dignity; and all this cools my friendship, and impedes my sincerity.”