Volume Two—Chapter Seven.

We have, in a previous chapter, attempted to describe the romantic and pastoral beauty of the coast of Circassia, as viewed from the sea. We must now transport our readers to a scene of even loftier grandeur, and more surpassing loveliness.

On the southern side of a high mountain, thickly clothed with the varied foliage of magnificent trees, some two or three hundred feet from the base, was a broad and extended plateau or terrace, terminating on one side by a steep precipice, while on the other the mountain rose in majestic grandeur, from the side of which, amid the trees, projected rocky crags of fantastic shapes, partly covered with the slender tendrils of creeping plants. Down the mountain’s slope sparkled a bright cascade, leaping from rock to rock, here hidden from sight by some overhanging trees or jutting cliff, and there appearing more clear and joyous than before, till it fell in a spray-wreathed column into a bason, from which it meandered through the small plain of the plateau, fertilising in its course several highly-cultivated fields, till it again fell in a shower of foam over the sides of the precipice, into a beautifully green and broad valley below; there joining the pure waters of a rapid rivulet, which brawled over its rocky bed in its course towards the sea, through the winding gorge of the valley.

Towards the east, as far as the eye could reach, appeared hills and mountains of every form; some swelling in gentle undulations, and covered with fields of corn or green pastures, where grazed numerous flocks and herds; some clothed to their lofty summits with magnificent forests, and others again rising in steep, rugged, and barren abruptness. Above all were seen blue ridges of mountains, rising one beyond the other; first clear and defined, and then growing more indistinct and faint, till lost in the azure tint of the sky. In the same direction, the terrace extended for some way, gradually narrowing till it merged in the steep sides of the mountain. Some well cultivated high ground of no great elevation, rose on the opposite side of the valley, which, in the direction of the sea, narrowed into a deep ravine, taking an abrupt turn, with precipitous and insurmountable sides. The sea face of the mountains which formed it, could be trodden by none but the light-footed goat, or the almost equally active and daring mountain-hunters.

It was, in truth, a situation well calculated to secure a retreat, and to form a fortification against any hostile invader, if protected by a few brave and resolute men; and on that account, it had been selected as a location by the gallant chief of a once numerous tribe, who had been driven by the Russians from his former hereditary possessions.

His residence stood just within sound of the refreshing cascade, whose pure waters flowed before his door. The house was surrounded by farm yards, well-stocked with every species of domestic animal, and every kind of poultry. Well-planted orchards formed part of the homestead; and the trees in them were now loaded with fruit.

The dwelling consisted of several separate buildings, of the usual style of Circassian architecture; but one was arranged with more care and attention than the others. This was the anderoon, or house appropriated to the women; it was separated from the others by a paling, which, however, was not sufficiently high to obscure the prospect. The front looked down the lovely valley, over many a rocky hill and cliff, beyond which, in the distance, was the bright blue sea. Before it extended a verandah, round whose trellised supports many creeping plants had been trained; their slender tendrils bearing sweet-smelling flowers, which hung in graceful festoons from the top.

But it was in the interior that the brightest gem of the casket was to be found. On a cushion of rich silk, was seated, gazing through the open door, a young girl, lovely as one of Eve’s fairest daughters. Her eyes, of the deepest blue and of dazzling lustre, shaded with long dark silky eyelashes, were gazing upon the picturesque view before her; her delicate carnation lips were slightly parted, disclosing her pearly teeth. Her features were perfectly regular; and the fair complexion of her gently rounded cheeks was almost imperceptibly tinged with a roseate hue. Her raven hair fastened by a silken band over her forehead, fell in a long plait behind, and from her head a veil of white gauze scarcely shrouded her graceful and slender figure. The robe she wore was of blue silk, trimmed with silver; her full white muslin trousers were confined with a richly worked girdle, which encircled her waist; and small slippers of coloured leather, beautifully worked in arabesque patterns with silver, completed her attire.

By her side lay an embroidered belt, at which she apparently had been working, as the golden thread still hung, unconsciously, in her slender fingers.

At a short distance from this lovely creature, sat a little girl, busily occupied in spinning; whose small, quick, piercing eyes, and dark irregular features, shewed her to be not of Circassian race; a slave taken, probably in some predatory excursion, from the Calmuck Tartars. As she pursued her occupation, she turned at times her quick glance towards her young mistress, as if with an endeavour to catch her eye, but without avail; and she seemed fearful of arousing her from her meditations, whatever might be their nature.

A tame kid of snowy whiteness was gambolling before the door; till, grown bold by impunity, it bounded into the room. But even the pretty animal’s playful antics did not rouse her; and the little maiden diligently plied her work, despairing of recalling the thoughts of her lady, to the affairs of the present moment.

At length the sound of a distant footstep approaching the dwelling, caught her ear, she started from the reverie. “Run, Buda, run!” she cried, in tones of silvery sweetness, “haste, maiden! and see who approaches; but whoever they may be, stop them from coming here. Say I can see no one to-day; I am ill at ease; I should weep to see strangers. Shew them to the guest room, but not here. Say I would see friends another day, but I cannot now. Go, child.”

The little girl was flying to obey these mandates, when the young beauty stooped for a moment, in the attitude of listening. “Stay, Buda, stay; it is useless. My fears have made me fanciful. Those are my father’s footsteps. Haste, Buda, to usher him to my apartment.”

While she spoke, the subject of her meditations appeared at the entrance of the apartment, ushered in, according to etiquette, by the youthful slave. As he entered, he bowed low, his lofty plumed helmet touching the door-sill, and as his graceful daughter rose from her silken cushions to receive and welcome him, he folded her in a tender embrace.

He was a warrior of commanding and majestic stature, clothed in complete armour. His coat of mail richly inlaid with gold, shone brightly with steel of the highest polish. His curling dark moustache and beard were yet untinged by any of the hues which betoken the approach of age, though his stern and fine features were marked with many furrows, indicating deep thought and numerous cares. He raised from his head his glittering helm, which his daughter respectfully took and placed by her side, as he seated himself on the ottoman and beckoned her to sit near him.

“It is long, my father,” said the fair girl, “since I have rejoiced in the light of your presence; and oh, what pleasure do you bring to me when you come! I was before sad and thoughtful, and now I feel light and happy. Say, what has kept you so long away?”

“My own sweet Ina,” answered the chieftain, “in these times of war and of constant peril, I have many things to attend to; and it does not become a warrior to spare many moments from his duties, even though he spend them in soft intercourse with one so loved as you, my child. I have even but now returned from mustering the small remnant of the faithful followers whom his foes have left to Arslan Gherrei; to see that they are well supplied with arms, horses and food, for a campaign. But why, Ina, were you just now, so sad and thoughtful?”

“Oh do not ask me, my father! now that I am again happy,” replied the daughter. “I did but for a moment feel somewhat ill, and feared that guests were coming whom I did not wish to receive. I am well again, my father, now that you are with me.”

“I have matter of importance to communicate to you,” said the chief, “you know Ina, that I so love you, that for all the riches of the mighty Padishah of the Osmanlis, I would not part from you; but yet, sweet one, the stern necessity of war compels me to leave you, and I must haste to join the hosts of my countrymen to repel our invaders. I may perchance fall, and leave you unprotected.”

“Do not say so, my father,” cried the lovely Ina. “Surely heaven will protect us, as it has done before. But why this sudden haste? Stay but some short time longer with me, and among your fields and retainers. Nothing can have happened to call you so quickly away.”

“It may not be, dear daughter. Now listen to my words. I have already told you that the valiant Khan, the noble Khoros Kaloret, has seen you—that he loves you. He is rich and brave; hundreds of retainers obey his commands and follow him to battle. He has numerous slaves who till his fields; rich pastures on which large herds of cattle graze; innumerable flocks wander over his mountains, while none can boast of finer horses or richer armour. What more can I say of him? He has sent his brother, who has just arrived, as an envoy to demand you in marriage, and I have spoken much to him. He says that he loves you, truly and deeply—that he would sacrifice half his possessions to gain you. Nay, tremble not, loved one. You know that horses, cattle, or the richest armour, are but as nought compared to you—that I would give all I have for your sake; but yet in this time of war, when any moment may lay me low, I would find some gallant protector who would shield you from danger; that when I am in the land of the blessed spirits, I may look down and see my child happy. Many there are who would be to me as a son, and would gladly accept your hand and succeed to my possessions; but none appear to win my Ina’s heart. Say, will my child become the bride of the Khan?”

“Oh my father, indeed, indeed, I feel your kind and generous conduct,” exclaimed Ina, with feeling and animation. “Where other fathers do not consult their daughters’ wishes, you willingly yield to mine. I too have seen the Khan, but I would not be his bride; I cannot dream of love for one like him. For your sake, my father, I would wed whom you wished; but still he should be one whom you too could love, who would obey, and follow you as a son. Ah! that Allah had made me one, that I might follow you to the battle, and share your dangers and your victories. If I were to wed this Khan, I should see you no more; I should be carried far away to his mountain home, distant from the sounds of war and strife, when you would be left alone without a child to attend you, when sick or wounded; or should you return victorious, none would be in your home to offer you a joyous welcome. Oh, my father! let me still remain your daughter; let me remain to tend your household and your flocks, if you will not let me go with you. But oh! how much rather than become the wife of the richest noble, would I follow you to the field, to cheer you in the camp, to dress your food, to be your page and attendant. This I can do.”

“Alas! my daughter, I cannot leave you here, for I must take all the followers that I can muster to the field. I have now so few, that I cannot leave enough to guard our home; and should our invaders gain the entrance of this pass, my house and fields must fall a prey to them. Then, my Ina, would you not be more safe and happy as the wife of a powerful chief, with thousands of warriors to fight under his banner, than to be following me amid the toils of a campaign?”

“No, oh no,” replied the daughter. “I do not, I cannot love the Khan; he is brave, but fierce, noble, and cruel; his followers obey him more through fear than love. His very features bespeak his character; he is no true son of the Attèghèi, and I would wed none but a scion of the true stock. Oh, tell the Khan’s brother, that you cannot part from me; that I am your only child, your successor; that I am not worthy of the Khan’s thoughts; that Circassia has many maidens far more prized than I. Oh! say that you will do so, and restore happiness to your daughter’s heart. It was the thought of this that made me sad and ill.”

The Chieftain gazed at his daughter with a glance of deep affection; yet, for a moment, the customs of his country seemed contending with his love. Nature, however, triumphed over habit.

“I will do as you will, my Ina,” he cried, clasping her in his arms. “I will send word to the proud Khan that even he cannot melt the icy heart of my child. Nay, do not weep, my daughter; you shall not leave me against your will for a stranger’s care.”

“Thanks, thanks, my father,” exclaimed Ina, affectionately returning his embrace. “You have restored peace and joy to my heart, and gladly will I prepare to accompany you to the camp.”

“That cannot be,” replied the chief. “Your delicate frame is but ill prepared to share the hardships of a warrior’s life; but your safety shall be better cared for, and I will bestow you with the family of my kinsman, the noble chief Aitek Tcherei. His lands are far removed from danger, among the rocky fastnesses of the mountains; and yet, so near the camp, that a quick-footed messenger, may reach it on the second day. Thither will I conduct you, Ina, ere I seek the field; and there, with a companion of your own age, you will be safe and happy. To-morrow after the sun has risen, prepare to accompany me, with your women and slaves; I must now away to the guest-house, to give your message to the young Khan Besin Kaloret, who is eagerly expecting an answer; and were it not for his oath of peace, methinks the proud Tartar Khan would ill brook a refusal. And now, Ina, farewell, till to-morrow’s morn, when I will meet you with my retainers to guard you on your way.”

The Chieftain arose, again bestowing an affectionate embrace on his child, as she presented him with his casque. He replaced it on his head, and quitted the chamber, attended by his daughter to the door. She followed him with her eyes, till he reached the entrance of the guest-house; when returning to her couch, she placed her hands before her face, and gave way to her overcharged feelings, in a flood of tears.

The little slave Buda gazed with astonishment, to see her mistress so overcome with distress; she approached her with concern.

“Oh, my dear mistress! why do you weep?” she cried.

Ina looked up at the little girl, with an affectionate and grateful eye. “I weep not through pain, Buda, but that I am a weak, foolish girl, unworthy, some would say, to be a maiden of Circassia, where all ought to be brave and bold. I weep, because I may not share my father’s dangers, and that I may never again see him, or hear his voice. I weep too, for joy, that he so loves me, that he will not part from me. But I must not give way to thoughts like these, or my tears will not cease flowing. I must nerve my soul to bear all that may happen, with the courage of a daughter of the Attèghèi, if I have not the strength of her sons. Now haste, Buda, we have much to do, to prepare for our journey. Summon the women from the fields, tell them that we must leave our home; bid them hasten to prepare our goods and furniture for our journey. Go, good Buda, go.”

As the little slave ran off to obey her mistress’s behests, the pet-kid again gambolled within the door of the room, and ran bleating to its fair guardian, looking up with its soft eyes full of affection, to her face. She bent down, and took it up in her arms. “Ah! my little plaything, and you too, I must see for the last time; perchance, no more shall I look upon your pretty gambols; no more will you come to be fed by my hand. When I am gone, you will wander wild among the mountains, with no roof to shelter you, and miss the care of your mistress, or a more sad fate, perhaps, be driven into the hands of those worse than wolves, our greedy invaders. Farewell, pretty one! give one more look with those soft eyes, and then go, forget me, and be happy among the wild flocks of your kind.”

The little animal, as if understanding her words, or the tone of her voice, ceased its frolicsome play, and seemed unwilling to quit her side.

The whole household was kept the rest of the day in a state of bustle and activity. The women were busily employed in making packages of all the light and easily moved valuables of the family; every one being too well prepared for the necessity of such a movement. Ina herself attended, to see that the tasks were properly performed; for a Circassian maiden, even of the highest rank, does not consider it a degradation to attend to her household affairs, but rather an honour to be so employed.