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by the north-east winds, with mighty summits, rise towards the sky into azure immensity above them. Their rough sharp contours become rounded, and embraced by the warm light mists of the southern night, are plunged in a deep musing. They cast upon the pale green surface of the waves long black shadows, as if they wished to keep still all movement, and to deafen the uninterrupted splash of the waters and sound of the foam, murmurs which still disturb the mysterious silence of the night that reigns over all, with the spreading blue-silver light of the moon hidden behind the summit of the mountains.
“A-alla-ah-a-akbar,” sighs, in a low voice, Nadyr-Bahim-Ogly, a tall, thin, sun-burnt, and wise old man from the Crimea, who is always low-spirited.
I am lying on the sand with him near a large stone, torn off from its native
