make a short cut across the Crimea. But it never occurred to Kéraban that there was not terra firma all the way. He was mistaken, and Ahmet did not undeceive him.
One may be a good Turk, an excellent tobacco-merchant, and yet an indifferent geographer. Kéraban was probably unaware that the flow of the Sea of Azof into the Black Sea is carried through a wide "sound," the ancient Cimmerian Bosphorus, known as the Strait of Yenikale, and must be crossed by any one who wishes to pass between the peninsulas of Kertsch and Taman.
Now Seigneur Kéraban had for the sea a repugnance which his nephew was fully aware of. What would he say then when he found himself by the strait, and if, in consequence of currents or want of water, it became necessary to cross it at its widest part—a distance of nearly twenty miles? Suppose he refused to venture? Suppose he insisted on remounting the whole eastern side of the Crimea to gain the littoral of the Sea of Azof, up to the spurs of the Caucasus? What a prolongation of the journey this would be—what lost time—what interests would be compromised! How could they then hope to reach Scutari by the appointed time?
These were the thoughts that perplexed Ahmet as the chaise rolled on. In less than two hours the shore would be reached, and the uncle would have to decide. How was he to prepare himself for the event? He must take care that no discussion arose. If the hot-headed Kéraban once took a side, nothing would turn him from his idea, and he would insist on turning round and retracing his way to Kertsch.
Ahmet was at a loss. If he confessed his little ruse, he might put his uncle in a passion. It would be better, he thought, to pass himself off as ignorant of the geographical features of the province, and to feign the greatest surprise when he discovered a strait where he quite expected dry land.
"Allah aid me!" muttered Ahmet, and then he waited, with all a Turk's fatalism, the result.
The peninsula of Kertsch is divided by a long trench
