Volume Three—Chapter Two.

Deep was the grief of Ina when she saw her beloved father and brother depart for the scene of conflict, nor could her heart refrain from sad forebodings when she thought of the dangers to which they must be exposed. Too often had she been witness to the misery and heart-rending wailing of her countrywomen, when anxiously expecting a father, a husband, or a brother, as they met in lieu the mangled remains of the loved one brought home on a bloody bier by his comrades. Such grief she herself had never known; but she felt too clearly that horrors like those might be in store, too, for her; nor could the fierce blast of war, which raged round the land, steel her heart.

Zara did all in her power to tranquillise and cheer her friend under her affliction; but too well could she also enter into and share her fears, for she had seen her gallant father brought home stiff and cold on his shield, slaughtered by the foe in repelling an inroad into his country. That father was the last prop of her grandsire’s declining years; and hopelessly for him had the old man mourned, for he had now no warrior descendant to succeed to his name and possessions, and none to guard his child from danger. At his death the disposal of Zara in marriage would devolve on the eldest of his tribe, and they would not inquire if her heart could be given with her person. Her destiny, therefore, might be a cruel one. A new chief would be chosen to lead the clan to battle, and, in peace, to preside at their councils, and poor Zara might be neglected.

Such was the fair girl’s account of herself; and thus the two friends, by pouring their griefs into each other’s bosom, found mutual consolation. She confessed, indeed, that there was one whom she hoped might win her, and whom she thought loved her; but he had no wealth, and as yet had little renown in arms. Yet she whispered to her friend’s ear, that she fondly loved the gallant young Alp, though she had enjoyed but few opportunities of meeting him.

The aged Prince, Aitek Tcherei, having warmly embraced the tenets of Mahomet, the two maidens were more strictly secluded than Ina had been accustomed to; the old Ana, or nurse, who presided over the domestic arrangements of the anderoon, keeping a constant and vigilant watch upon them. Though the custom of the country would not allow of their being limited to the same strict seclusion as in a Turkish harem, the nurse was, nevertheless, horrified at the idea of Ina’s appealing in public without her face being entirely shrouded by a thick veil, nor did she at all approve of her propensity to ramble through the groves, or amid the shadowy cliffs.

The old Kahija’s ideas of female happiness did not extend beyond the acquisition of a new veil or robe, or, more than all, the enjoyment of a gossip. What pleasure could the girls find in scrambling over the dirty mountains and damp grass? or why should they dance or sing, except to please their lords and masters, when other persons are paid to dance and sing to them?

Her parents had sold her, when young and promising great beauty, to a Turkish slave-merchant; and it was with unalloyed pleasure, in anticipation of the novelty and magnificence of the great Stamboul, that she leaped on board the vessel which was to convey her from her friends and country. At first she herself felt the irksomeness of constraint; but soon became reconciled to her self-chosen lot, and learned to approve of all the regulations of the harem to which she was consigned. Her notions, therefore, on her return, at the death of her master, to her own country, were much scandalised at the freedom and what she considered the levity of her young countrywomen; and she loved to expatiate on the superior manners and customs of the fair captives in the seclusions of Stamboul. Like other dames, who find that their charms can no longer captivate, her temper at times became rather cross and crabbed, though she always tried to treat her young motherless charge with kindness.

Such was the old Ana, Kahija, who, wrapped in her feridji, now entered the anderoon to interrupt with her gossip the conversation of the two maidens. She delighted in gossiping—what old nurse does not? particularly a Turkish one. She now came out of breath, with her exertion of walking from a neighbouring cottage, to say with great eagerness, that the chief shepherd had just come in from the distant mountains, where he had seen the dark mountain khan, Khoros Kaloret, whose brother had turned traitor, and been killed by the young chief Selem, galloping by with a long train of savage followers, who were riding furiously in the direction of the Ubin.

“Oh, Allah, grant that he meet not my father or Selem there!” exclaimed Ina, in accents of terror.

“I know not what may happen, child,” said the old nurse. “They say he is a fierce chief. I hear, too, that he sought your hand. Mashallah! but you might have been proud to wed so rich a Khan; and yet, Bosh! what is he even to a merchant of Stamboul?”

“Why could you not love him?” asked Zara; “they say he is of gallant appearance.”

“Ah, Zara! love him? you know not what love is, to ask such a question. Love him! No! I could only fear him, he looks so stern and fierce; so unlike the calm and grave features of my father,” said Ina.

“What is all this stuff the girls are talking about love?” chimed in the old nurse. “Bosh! what nonsense is this? Love! What is love? it is nothing; it is worse than nothing; it is folly—it is Bosh! What should maidens know about love? Let them be married, and then it is time to love their lords and masters.”

Ina and Zara were in despair; for it was hopeless to carry on any interesting conversation on their own feelings, with the constant observations and interruptions of old Kahija; who could be very entertaining at times, when she had the whole of the conversation to herself, with her wonderful stories about Turkey and Stamboul. They were relieved, however, from the dulness their constrained silence threw over them, by the entrance of Conrin, with a small packet from his master to Ina.

We have said that Arslan Gherrei had been educated in Turkey, and held a high post in the army of the Sultan, where he acquired many accomplishments very unusual to the generality of his countrymen. In the calm retreat of his daughter’s anderoon, when no strangers were by to witness his occupation, he had endeavoured to cultivate her youthful mind by the aid of the few books he had brought with him; and he had taught her not only to speak, but to read and write Turkish, accomplishments possessed probably by no other maiden in Circassia; for few were blessed with fathers equally heroic in war, and capable of enjoying the blessings of peace.

Zara, ignorant of her friend’s accomplishments, looked with mute surprise when Ina, taking the note from the page’s hand, hastily broke the thread which tied it, and read an account of the safety of her father and brother, as far as they had as yet proceeded in their warlike operations. The page was equally eager.

“Tell me, lady, tell me is my dear master in safety?” he said.

“Yes he is. Allah be praised! he and my father are well; and he tells me not to forget my care of you, Conrin.”

“Heaven be praised that he is safe. That he remembers me, brings joy to my heart!” exclaimed the youth, clasping his hands.

The venerable Prince was kind and courteous in the extreme to his Polish guest; yet Thaddeus found, to his great disappointment, that the anderoon was, to him, forbidden ground; and instead of the constant communication he had delighted in the prospect of enjoying with Ina, he could never approach her, except to offer a few words of courtesy when she was taking the air. Those short sentences were understood by Kahija, who was scandalised that the young lady should be addressed, even in the ordinary terms of greeting; and more so on perceiving that Ina tolerated them. All his attempts at any further conversation were fruitless, owing to the constant vigilance of the old woman; and Ina’s native modesty forbade her making any advances herself, however she might have received them on his part.

At last he bethought him of gaining the confidence of young Conrin; but the boy constantly avoided him, though he would now and then stop to listen if he began to speak of his master, and to make any observations in his praise. He thus felt the time hang heavily daring the absence of his friend; for he had few to converse with, except the old Prince, who spoke Turkish, and some of the Polish prisoners, or rather deserters, from the Russian army; his only satisfaction being the occasional glimpses he caught of Ina, and the delight of hearing the musical tones of her voice as she returned his salutations.

His great resource was the chase. With a light rifle in his hand, and attended by Karl and his former Polish servant, who enjoyed their life of freedom and independence, so different from the abject servitude to which they had hitherto been accustomed, he roamed the woods and mountains. In these excursions he was also accompanied by several of the youths of the valley, too young to go to war, who guided his steps along the precipices, and shewed him where same abounded. At other times he would mount a steed, appropriated to his use, galloping along the green valleys, and up the mountain’s sides, and vieing with the young mountaineers in their equestrian exercises, till he became as expert a horseman as they. He would often, with his rifle, bring down a bird on the wing which they could not hit; thus winning their hearts by his proficiency in what they most admired.

He, however, began to regret not having accompanied his friend to the camp; and accused himself of want of friendship towards him.

We have said that Ina longed to breathe the free air of the mountains, unrestrained in her liberty by the slow-moving steps of old Kahija. Though she could not persuade the timid Zara to accompany her, she frequently asserted her independence by sallying forth attended only by her page. On her return, she listened, with composure, to the severe lectures she received for these transgressions of decorum; and still determined to renew them at every opportunity. How delighted she felt as, bounding like a young fawn, whose fleetness she rivalled, she flew through the shady groves. Then she would climb the mountain’s brow, inhaling the fresh pure air, and almost forgetting, as she gazed over the fair land of mountain, vale, and stream, the miseries which threatened it.

Towards the end of one lovely day, she left the confines of the anderoon, attended by her page, who had now learned to love her, not more from his affection for her brother than for her own endearing qualities; looking around from the open wicket and seeing none to impede her progress, she took her way through the grove towards a valley she had long wished to explore, at some distance from the house. It was a lovely place, originally formed from a fissure in the mountains, increased by the constant wear of winter floods. Under the summer heat, the torrent had dwindled into a tiny and clear rivulet, in one part leaping in a bright cascade, then flowing in a gentle current, and next rushing over a ledge of rocks, and falling into the larger valley, where it expanded into a tiny lake.

The lady and her attendant walked on by its side over the soft velvet herbage which the receding waters had left, and began to climb the rocky sides of the glen, the summits of which were now blooming with various sweet scented shrubs and herbs. A soft and mellow sky cast a soothing influence over the scene, and the air was laden with fragrant odours. Thoughtless of the difficulties they had passed, and fearless of the steep and rocky paths, they clambered on, leaping lightly from ledge to ledge, and holding by the shrubs and plants to aid their steps, till at length they reached a platform, where they rested to view the broad and beautiful valley into which the little ravine opened.

Below them was the smiling village amid its groves of stately trees, its farm-yards, granaries, orchards, and cattle-pens. At a little distance, at the side of the stream, was the rustic and unpretending Mosque, from the platform of whose primitive minaret the Muezzin was calling all true believers to the evening prayer. Here were shepherds driving their flocks from the mountain’s side to their pens, to shelter them from the wild beasts. The kine were lowing on their way to their sheds, while the village maidens carolled gaily as they milked their cows. The birds were singing from every rock and spray; and all living nature seemed calm and contented—

The page roused Ina from her contemplation of the scene.

“Lady,” said he, “we ought ere this to have sought our homeward way: the path is steep and difficult, and the shades of evening will overtake us, ere we can reach the valley.”

“Fear not, Conrin. There are no dangers we need dread,” returned Ina. “Old Kahija’s scolding is the worst that can happen to us. We mountain maids are sure of foot, and fearless as you seem, on the edge of the steepest precipice. But, as you say, it is full time we should return home; for, as it is, we shall be missed from the anderoon, and old Kahija will think that we have fled for ever from her grave rule.”

But as they looked round, doubtful on what part of the steep cliff to begin their descent, they found that to return was not so easy an achievement as Ina had pronounced it to be; for so many turnings had they taken, that they could not discover the path by which they had attained the spot where they stood.

It was difficult to say how they could have reached their present position, as in vain they searched for the path. At length, Conrin hazarded a spring to a lower ledge, from which it appeared that practicable footing was to be found, when he was startled by a scream from above; and, gazing upward, he beheld the Lady Ina in the grasp of a ferocious, wild-looking man, who was endeavouring to drag her up the steep cliff, while she resisted with all her power, calling her page to her assistance. Conrin fruitlessly attempted to reach the upper ledge, for the slender shrubs and herbage gave way in his hands as he clutched them. Trembling with agitation, he fell back to the spot from which he was strenuously trying to climb.

The man’s appearance was, in truth, ferocious. Of gigantic height, his face was almost covered with tangled dark locks hanging down from his head, on which he wore a cap of undyed brown and white goat-skin, the long hair of which, falling in front over his neck, added to the wildness of his features. His body was clothed in a tunic of the same material, and a long black cloak of goat’s hair fell from his shoulders. Rough sandals of bark were on his feet, fastened to his ankles by thongs of leather. At his back hung a bow and quiver, and in one hand he grasped a thick spear or club and a round black shield of bull’s hide; while in the other he held the slender form of Ina.

“Set me at freedom! How dare you thus insult me?” she cried. “I would seek my way homeward.”

“Not so, fair maiden,” answered the man with rough harsh tones, in a strange dialect, though Ina could comprehend it sufficiently to understand the tenor of his words. “Not so; you are a prize of too much value to be allowed to escape so easily.”

“Begone, barbarian, and loose your hold,” cried Ina, though fearful and trembling in his rude grasp, yet retaining her native dignity. “Think you to escape the vengeance of my tribe, if you should wrong me?”

“Vengeance! say you?” exclaimed the man scornfully. “Think you I fear the vengeance of any?”

“You will have cause to fear it, if you do not release me,” she answered. “Know you not what chieftain’s child I am?”

“I know full well,” said the savage. “You are the daughter of the chief who wronged my master; who slew my master’s brother; and you are the timid maid who would not be his bride. But now you’ll not again refuse to obey his will.”

“I know not of whom you speak,” cried Ina. “My father never slew a chief of Attèghèi.”

“I know your father well,” answered the ruffian. “He is the Chieftain Arslan Gherrei, and you refused to be the bride of the brave Khan, my master, Khoros Kaloret.”

“Your master Kaloret Khan?” cried Ina, still more terrified than before, at the sound of that name. “Yet he would never dare to rob a noble Uzden of his daughter. Release me, ruffian!”

“My master fears not any chief of Attèghèi,” answered the man, fiercely. “I’ll waste no more speech; so cease your cries, and come willingly. My noble master waits your coming.”

Ina shrieked with fear. “Oh, Allah, protect me!” she cried, as the savage endeavoured to drag her away. “Barbarian, release me, I pray you, let me go.”

“No, no, girl, your prayers are useless,” answered the man. “Let my master hear them. On me, they are thrown away.”

“Haste, haste, Conrin,” she cried, in Turkish; “fly to our home. Send messengers to Selem, to my father, and rouse the villagers.”

As the barbarian saw the page hastening to obey, he said to Ina: “Stay that boy, till we are out of sight. If he moves hence, I’ll send an arrow through his breast.”

Conrin, who understood not his words—Ina being too terrified to interpret them—was hurrying from rock to rock, fearless of the peril which a single false step might cause, or of the cruel death which threatened him; when the barbarian prepared to put his threat into execution. For an instant, he loosened his hold of Ina, unslinging his bow from his back, and drawing a shaft to its head, with a hand which never missed its aim. In vain, Ina shrieked to Conrin to stop, and implored the monster to hold his hand. Neither of them heard her voice.

The last moment of the poor boy’s life seemed to have arrived, as the arrow flew from the string; but ere the hand which drew it reached the ear, it was struck by a violent blow, and the shaft wavering in its aim, flew high above the page’s head. The fierce mountaineer, taking a second arrow, turned to his aggressor, when he found his arm held by a powerful and firm grasp.

Ina shrieked with fear for her preserver’s life—for in him she beheld the stranger Thaddeus—as the follower of the Khan attempted to seize his heavy spear, and to fell him to the ground. But the young Pole, grappling with him, prevented his raising it high enough to strike. Though Thaddeus was strong and active, his fierce opponent was heavier and more powerful. Releasing his arm with a sudden exertion, he sought his dagger in his girdle; but the Pole throwing himself upon him with his whole force, the two combatants fell to the ground.

“Fear not for me, dearest Ina,” cried he; “save yourself. Hasten down the cliffs, and fly homewards. I will hold this robber, until you are safe.”

Ina scarcely heard his words, or, if she did, thought not of following his advice; but trembling for his life, she watched the combat, so as, if possible, to lend her aid. For an instant, Thaddeus was uppermost; but endeavouring to grasp his opponent’s throat, he was obliged to release one arm; when, drawing his dagger from his belt, the mountaineer, by a violent effort, threw himself round, grasping the fatal weapon in his hand, and bringing the unfortunate youth below him. He was about to stab the young Pole, when another, though a feeble hand, directed its aim, and it struck deeply into the earth, in a cleft of the rock.

Thaddeus seized the dagger; when his opponent, with tremendous exertion, arose and attempted to hurl him over the cliff; but as the mountaineer approached the edge, his foot slipped. Seizing the fortunate moment, and mustering all his strength, Thaddeus struck the dagger deep into his breast. The huge barbarian fell heavily, still clasping Thaddeus in his arms, who, nevertheless, forced him to the edge of the platform, when the body rolled over to a jutting craig, some feet below where they stood.

Recovering himself, Thaddeus turned to Ina, “Lady,” he said, “I owe my life to your courage: your timely aid saved me.”

“Oh, no,” she cried; “it was you who saved my life, and more than life, for which you bravely risked your own. Allah be praised, who guarded yours, and brought you to my rescue! You also saved poor Conrin’s life. But let us not stay here. The comrades of the man may come and revenge his death on you. Oh, let us hasten home.”

“I will bear you safely down these steep cliffs, lady,” said Thaddeus; “you are weak, and scarce able to walk from terror.”

Lifting her gently (and Ina thought not of resisting his offer), with firm and fearless steps, he sought a path amid the craigs; and as he bore her slight form in his arms, he felt her hand unconsciously press his. Her bright beaming eyes betrayed the ardent gratitude, which her lips feared to utter. She looked anxiously into his face, to learn if he felt oppressed by fatigue; but there she read alone his love and pride, at having saved her; nor could she bring herself to entreat him to set her down, till they reached in safety the bottom of the glen.

“I am stronger now, and will fatigue your arms no longer, noble Sir,” she said. Thaddeus at last, unwillingly obeyed her repeated requests, though she still consented to lean on his arm, as he accompanied her homeward.

“Whence came that robber, who so terrified you?” asked Thaddeus.

“Oh he was no robber,” answered Ina. “But a follower of the fierce Khan, whose brother the young Conrin slew and who seeks to wed me.”

“Wed you, lady? Can such as he be worthy of you?” exclaimed the young Pole with enthusiasm.

“I know not; but I never loved him,” answered Ina; “and now I doubly fear his vengeance for your sake. When he hears that you have slain his follower, he will not rest till he has had satisfaction for his blood. I would that you were safe beyond his reach!”

“I do not dread any injury he can do me,” cried Thaddeus. “To have saved you from danger is so great a joy that I would die to gain it.”

Ina felt her heart beat quickly as he spoke; for the tone of his voice said more even than the words themselves.

It was a moment of delight—of pure bliss to both those young beings; notwithstanding the wildness of the scene, the danger they had passed through and which might be still pursuing them. They knew that they mutually loved. They attempted not to speak; for they felt that words would not adequately convey their love. They looked into each other’s eyes, and there they read all each could wish to know. Ina thought of her preserver, and the danger he was yet in; and, as she hastened through the glen, she cast many an anxious glance to see if any followed. She thought that she heard a footstep; it was but the rushing of the stream across a rock; she tried to increase her speed; again she turned with fear—it was but the echo of their tread among the cliffs.

Thaddeus endeavoured to tranquillise her alarms; and partially succeeded, by assuring her that he had himself descended the ravine, and had encountered no one. As they emerged from the narrow gorge, loud shouts saluted their ears, and they met a band of villagers led on by Conrin, who, overcome by his exertions, sunk down at his mistress’s feet on seeing she was safe. Ina stooped over the poor boy with deep solicitude, endeavouring to unloose his vest; but he strenuously resisted her offers, declaring that he was fast recovering.

The party, composed of old and young, armed with weapons, shouted loudly for joy when they saw Ina in safety; she thanked them for their promptitude in coming to her rescue, and presented Thaddeus as her preserver. The villagers complimented him on his bravery and success, as with shouts and songs, they followed her homeward. The aged chief had left his house to encourage the people in their pursuit of the ravisher; but, when he saw his young kinswoman in safety, he felt a strong inclination to scold her for wandering. As, however, she appeared overcome with fatigue, he forbore, and left her to the lectures he knew she would be certain to receive from the old Kahija.

Thaddeus would not quit her side until he had conducted her to the gate of the anderoon, to commit her to the gentle care of Zara who was anxiously awaiting her.