262 CASUALS IN THE CAUCASUS 



wind. The whole of his Httlc compassed world evoked 

 a harmony of spiritualization in the primitive old man 

 o' dreams. 



The Prince told us our shepherd's history. 



Long, long ago, Mazan, derelict now, with no home 

 but the shelter beside another's flock, had lived in 

 forested Circassia, in a rich holding of his own. From 

 thence he drifted into the forces of tribal warriors 

 resisting the Russians, until at last he reached the 

 distant country of Schamyl's mountaineers. Perhaps 

 Mazan went purposely, for he was ever a fighter. 

 Enlisting under the banner of the fanatical patriot, 

 he fought in the great struggle for some years. Sud- 

 denly Home called. Circassia, and perhaps — who 

 knows ? — the memory of one other. Over the ranges, 

 the glaciers, the grassy highlands, he journeyed, 

 treading lightly, his heart singing. He who had thought 

 but of War, now dreamed but of Home. 



Nobody knew the end of Mazan's journey. He could 

 not tell himself, for he came back with clouded brain, 

 back over the mountains, across the frosty Klukhor 

 Pass, falteringly, laggingly. The Prince's father took 

 the wanderer in — Karbardans are said to be akin to 

 the Adighe — and here, as a sheep-tender, Mazan had 

 lived ever since, gradually picking up the frayed thread 

 of his life, and slowly weaving, Arachne-like, the 

 golden strands of a Might-have-been. To poor aged 

 Mazan Circassia was Circassia still, but something, 

 something demoniac and revengeful, a Shade, perhaps, 

 of one of his old-time foes, prevented his return. But 

 some day he would go home. The work, the long 



