But pity penetrated the heart of Ammalát, maddened as he was, and
burning with wine--like a sunbeam falling in a robber's cave. He beheld
the sorrow, the tears of the man whom he had so long considered as his
friend, and hesitated. "No!" he thought, "to such a degree as that it is
impossible to dissimulate...."

At this moment Verkhóffsky started from his reverie, lifted up his head,
and spoke to Ammalát. "Prepare yourself: you are to go with me!"

Unlucky words! Every thing good, every thing noble, which had arisen
anew in Ammalát's breast, was crushed in a moment by them. The thought
of treachery--of exile--rushed like a torrent through his whole being
"With you!" he replied, with a malicious smile--"with you, and into
Russia?--undoubtedly: if you go yourself!" and in a passion of rage he
urged his horse into a gallop, in order to have time to prepare his
arms; suddenly turned back to meet him; flew by him, and began to ride
rapidly in a circle around him. At each stride of his horse, the flame
of rage burned more fiercely within him: it seemed as if the wind, as it
whistled past him, kept whispering "Kill, kill! he is your enemy.
Remember Seltanetta!" He brought his rifle forward from his shoulder,
cocked it, and encouraging himself with a cry, he galloped with
blood-thirsty decision to his doomed victim. Verkhóffsky, meanwhile, not
cherishing the least suspicion, looked quietly at Ammalát as he galloped
round, thinking that he was preparing, after the Asiatic manner, for the
djigítering (equestrian exercises.)

"Fire at your mark, Ammalát Bek!" he exclaimed to the murderer who was
rushing towards him.

"What mark can be better than the breast of a foe?" answered Ammalát