but just go and have a drop and you're a lost
man!"

On hearing this I almost lost hope.

"Take the Circassians, now," he continued;
"once let them drink their fill of buza[1] at a
wedding or a funeral, and out will come their
knives. On one occasion I had some difficulty in
getting away with a whole skin, and yet it was at
the house of a 'friendly'[2] prince, where I was
a guest, that the affair happened."

[1] A kind of beer made from millet.

[2] i.e. acknowledging Russian supremacy.

"How was that?" I asked.

"Here, I'll tell you." . . .

He filled his pipe, drew in the smoke, and began
his story.



CHAPTER II


"YOU see, sir," said the staff-captain, "I