“Mustapha,” said the pacha, “I feel as the caliph Haroun Alraschid, in the tale of Yussuf, related by Menouni, full of care; my soul is weary ­my heart is burnt as roast meat.”

Mustapha, who had wit enough to perceive that he was to act the part of Giaffar, the vizier, immediately replied, “O pacha! great and manifold are the cares of state.  If thy humble slave may be permitted to advise, thou wilt call in the Chinese dog with two tails, who hath as yet repeated but one of his tales.”

“Not so,” replied the pacha; “I am weary of his eternal ti-tum, tilly-lilly, which yet ringeth in mine ears.  What else canst thou propose?”

“Alem penah! refuge of the world, wilt thou be pleased to order out thy troops, and witness the exercise of djireed?  The moon is high in the heavens, and it is light as day.”

“Not so,” replied the pacha; “I am tired of war and all that appertains to it.  Let the troops sleep in peace.”

“Then, O pacha! will you permit your slave to send for some bottles of the fire-water of the Giaour, that we may drink and smoke until we are elevated to the seven heavens?”

“Nay, good vizier, that is as a last resource, for it is forbidden by the laws of the Prophet.  Think once more, and thou must have no more brains than a water-melon, if this time thou proposest not that which will give me ease.”

“Thy slave lives but to hear, and hears but to obey,” replied Mustapha.  “Then will it please my lord to disguise himself, and walk through the streets of Cairo; the moon is bright, and the hyena prowls not now, but mingles his howlings with those of the jackal afar off.”

“Your face is whitened, Mustapha, and it pleaseth us.  Let the disguises be prepared, and we will sally forth.”

In a short time the disguises were ready, the vizier taking care that they should be those of Armenian merchants, knowing that the pacha would be pleased with the similarity to those worn by the great Alraschid; two black slaves, with their swords, followed the pacha and his vizier at a short distance.  The streets were quite empty, and they met with nothing living except here and there a dog preying on the garbage and offal, who snapped and snarled as they passed by.  The night promised nothing of adventure, and the pacha was in no very good humour, when Mustapha perceived a light through the chinks of a closed window in a small hovel, and heard the sound of a voice.  He peeped through, the pacha standing by his side.  After a few seconds the vizier made signs to the pacha to look in.  The pacha was obliged to strain his fat body to its utmost altitude, standing on the tips of his toes to enable his eyes to reach the cranny.  The interior of the hovel was without furniture, a chest in the centre of the mud floor appeared to serve as table and repository of everything in it, for the walls were bare.  At the fireplace, in which were a few embers, crouched an old woman, a personification of age, poverty, and starvation.  She was warming her shrivelled hands over the embers, and occasionally passed one of her hands along her bony arm, saying, “Yes, the time has been ­the time has been.”

“What can she mean,” said the pacha to Mustapha, “by ’the time has been’?”

“It requires explanation,” replied the vizier; “this is certain, that it must mean something.”

“Thou hast said well, Mustapha; let us knock, and obtain admittance.”  Mustapha knocked at the door of the hovel.

“There’s nothing to steal, so you may as well go,” screamed the old woman; “but,” continued she, talking to herself, “the time has been ­the time has been.”

The pacha desired Mustapha to knock louder.  Mustapha applied the hilt of his dagger, and thumped against the door.

“Ay ­ay ­you may venture to knock now, the sultan’s slippers are not at the door,” said the old woman:  “but,” continued she, as before, “the time has been ­the time has been.”

“Sultan’s slippers! and time has been!” cried the pacha.  “What does the old hag mean?  Knock again, Mustapha.”

Mustapha reiterated his blows.”

“Ay ­knock ­knock ­my door is like my mouth; I open it when I choose, and I keep it shut when I choose, as once was well known.  The time has been ­the time has been.”

“We have been a long time standing here, and I am tired of waiting; so, Mustapha, I think the time is come to kick the door open.  Let it be done.”

Whereupon Mustapha put his foot to the door, but it resisted his efforts.  “Let me assist,” said the pacha, and retreated a few paces; he and Mustapha backed against the door with all their force.  It flew open, and they rolled together on the floor of the hovel.  The old woman screamed, and then, jumping on the body of the pacha, caught him by the throat, crying, “Thieves; murder!” Mustapha hastened to the assistance of his master, as did the two black slaves, when they heard the cries, and with some difficulty the talons of the old Jezebel were disengaged from the throat of the pacha, who, in his wrath, would have immediately sacrificed her.  “Lahnet be Shitan!  Curses on the devil!” exclaimed the pacha; “but this is pretty treatment for a pacha.”

“Knowest thou, vile wretch, that thou hast taken by the throat, and nearly strangled, the Lord of Life ­the pacha himself,” said Mustapha.

“Well,” replied the old woman, coolly, “the time has been ­the time has been.”

“What meanest thou, cursed hag, that ’the time has been’?”

“I mean that the time has been, when I have had more than one pacha strangled.  Yes,” continued she squatting down on the floor, and muttering, “the time has been.”

The pacha’s rage was now a little appeased.  “Mustapha,” said the pacha, “let this old woman be carefully guarded; to-morrow afternoon we will understand the meaning of those strange words, ‘the time has been.’  Depend upon it, thereby hangs a good story; we will have that first ­and then,” whispered the pacha, “her head off afterwards.”

The old woman, hearing the order to take her into custody, again repeated.  “Ah, very well ­the time has been.”  The slaves laid hold of her; but she defended herself so vigorously with her teeth and nails, that they were under the necessity of gagging her, and tying her hand and foot.  They then hoisted her on their shoulders, and marched off with her to the palace, followed by Mustapha and the pacha, the latter quite delighted with his adventure.  When the divan of the ensuing day had closed, the old woman was ordered to be brought into the presence of the pacha; and as she refused to walk, she was brought on the shoulders of four of the guards, and laid on the floor of the council-chamber.  “How dare you rebel against the sublime commands?” inquired Mustapha with severity.

“How dare I rebel!” cried the old woman with a shrill voice.  “Why, what right has the pacha to drag me from my poor hovel; and what can he want with an old woman like me?  It’s not for his harem, I presume.”

At this remark the pacha and Mustapha could not help laughing; having recovered his gravity, Mustapha observed, “One would imagine, old carrion that thou art, that the idea of such a punishment as the bastinado had never entered your mind.”

“There you are mistaken, Mr Vizier, for I have suffered both the bastinado and the bowstring.”

“And the bowstring!  Holy Prophet! what a lying old hag!” exclaimed the pacha.

“No lie, pacha, no lie!” screamed the old woman in her wrath.  “I have said it ­and the bowstring.  Yes, the time has been, when I was young and beautiful; and do you know why I suffered?  I’ll tell you ­because I would not hold my tongue ­and do you think that I will now that I’m an old piece of carrion?  Yes ­yes ­the time has been.”

“Fortunately, then,” replied Mustapha, “you are not required by the pacha to hold your tongue.  You are required to do the very contrary, which is, to speak.”

“And do you know why I received the bowstring?” screamed the old hag.  “I’ll tell you ­because I would not speak; and I do not intend so to do now, since I find that you wish that I should.”

“Then it appears,” said the pacha, taking the pipe out of his mouth, “that the bastinado was as ill-managed as the bowstring.  We do these things better at Cairo.  Hear me, old mother of Shitan!  I wish to know what you mean by that expression which is ever in your mouth ­’time has been.’”

“It means a great deal pacha, for it refers to my life ­you want the story.”

“Exactly,” replied Mustapha, “so begin.”

“You must pay me for it ­it is worth twenty pieces of gold.”

“Do you presume to make conditions with his sublime highness the pacha?” exclaimed Mustapha.  “Why, thou mother of Afrits and Ghouls, if thou commencest not immediately, thy carcass shall be thrown over the walls for the wild dogs to smell at, and turn away from in disgust.”

“Vizier, I have lived long enough to trust nobody.  My price is twenty pieces of gold counted out in this shrivelled hand before I begin; and without they are paid down ­not one word.”  And the old beldam folded her arms, and looked the pacha boldly in the face.

“God is great!” exclaimed the pacha.  “We shall see.”  At his well-known signal the executioner made his appearance, and holding up the few scattered gray hairs which still remained upon her head, he raised his scimitar, awaiting the nod which was to be succeeded by the fatal blow.

“Strike, pacha, strike!” cried the old woman, scornfully.  “I shall only lose a life of which I have long been weary; but you will lose a story of wonder, which you are so anxious to obtain.  Strike ­for the last time, I say, ’Time has been’ ­before time shall be no more!”

“That is true, Mustapha,” observed the pacha.  “I forgot the story.  What an obstinate old devil; but I must hear the story.”

“If it appears good to your absolute wisdom,” said Mustapha, in a low voice, “would it not be better to count down to this avaricious old hag the twenty pieces of gold which she demands?  When her story is ended, it will be easy to take them from her, and her head from her shoulders.  Thus will be satisfied the demands of the old woman, and the demands of justice.”

“Wallah Thaib! it is well said, by Allah!  Your words are as pearls.  Count out the money, Mustapha.”

“His highness the pacha has been pleased, in consideration of the fear and trembling with which you have entered his presence, to order that the sum which you require shall be paid down,” said Mustapha, pulling out his purse from his girdle.  “Murakkas, you are dismissed,” continued the vizier to the executioner, who let go the old woman, and disappeared.  Mustapha counted out the twenty pieces of gold, and shoved them towards the old woman, who, after some demur, as if imagining that they ought to have been brought to her, got up and took possession of them.  She counted them over, and returned one piece as being of light weight.  Mustapha, with a grimace, but without speaking, exchanged it for another.

“By the beard of the Prophet!” muttered the pacha ­“but never mind.”

The old woman took out a piece of dirty rag, wrapped up the gold pieces, and placing them in her vest, smoothed down her sordid garments, and then commenced as follows: ­

“Pacha, I have not always lived in a hovel.  These eyes were not always bleared and dim, nor this skin wrinkled and discoloured.  I have not always been covered with these filthy rags ­nor have I always wanted or coveted the gold which you have just now bestowed on me.  I have lived in palaces ­I have commanded there.  I have been robed in gold ­I have been covered with jewels.  I have dispensed life and death ­I have given away provinces.  Pachas have trembled at my frown ­have received by my orders the bowstring ­for at one time I was the favourite of the grand sultan.  Time has been.”

“It must have been a long time ago, then,” observed the pacha.

“That is true,” replied the old woman; “but I will now narrate my adventures.”

STORY OF THE OLD WOMAN.

I was born in Georgia, where, as your highness knows, the women are reckoned to be more beautiful than in any other country, except indeed Circassia; but in my opinion, the Circassian women are much too tall, and on too large a scale, to compete with us; and I may safely venture my opinion, as I have had an opportunity of comparing many hundreds of the finest specimens of both countries.  My father and mother, although not rich, were in easy circumstances; my father had been a janissary in the sultan’s immediate employ, and after he had collected some property, he returned to his own country, where he purchased some land, and married.  I had but one brother, who was three years older than myself, and one of the handsomest youths in the country.  He was disfigured a little by a scarlet stain on his neck, somewhat in shape resembling a bunch of grapes, and which our national dress would not permit him to conceal.  My father, intending that he should serve the sultan, brought him up to a perfect knowledge of every martial exercise.  Even at fourteen years old, few could compete with him in the use of the bow, and throwing the djireed, and as a horseman he was perfect.  As for me, I was, I am certain, intended for the sultan’s seraglio, for as a child I was beautiful as a houri.  My father was a man who would not scruple to part with his children for gold, provided he obtained his price.  I was considered, and I believe that I was, the most beautiful girl in the country, and every care was taken that I should not injure my appearance or hurt my complexion by domestic labour or exposure.  I was not permitted to assist my mother, who, induced by my father’s orders, waited upon me.  I was indulged in every whim, and I grew up as selfish and capricious as I was beautiful.  Smile not, pacha ­time has been.

One day, when I was about fourteen years old, I was sitting at the porch, when a large body of Turkish cavalry suddenly made their appearance from a wood close to the house, and surrounded it.  They evidently came for me, for they demanded me by name, threatening to burn the house down to the ground, if I was not immediately delivered up.  Our house, which was situated near the confines of the country, had been constructed for defence; and my father, expecting assistance from his neighbours, refused to acquiesce in their terms.  The assault was made, my father and mother, with all their household, were murdered, my brother severely wounded, the house plundered, and burnt to the outside walls.  I was, of course, a prisoner as well as my brother.  He was tied, wounded as he was, upon one horse, and I upon another, and in a few hours the party had regained the frontiers.  A young man, handsome as an angel, was the leader of the band, and I soon perceived that all his thoughts and attentions, were directed to me.  He watched me with the greatest solicitude when we halted, procured me every comfort, and was always hovering about my presence.  From the discourse of the soldiers I discovered that he was the only son of the grand vizier at Stamboul.  He had heard of my beauty, had seen me, and offered a large sum to my father, who had refused, as his ambition was, that I should belong to the sultan ­in consequence I had been carried off by force.  I could have loved the beautiful youth, although he had murdered my father and mother, but it was the taking me by force which steeled my heart, and I vowed that I never would listen to his addresses, although I was so completely in his power.  During the time that I had been in his possession I had never spoken one word, and it came into my head that I would pretend to be dumb.  In three weeks we arrived at Constantinople.  Since I quitted the country I never had seen my brother, his wound was too severe to allow him to travel with the same rapidity, and it was not until years afterwards that I knew what had become of him.  I was taken to Osman Ali’s house, and allowed a few days’ repose from the fatigue of the journey; after which, as I was still but a child, I was ordered to be instructed in music, dancing, singing, and every other accomplishment considered necessary for the ladies of a harem.  But I adhered to my resolution, every method to induce me to speak was tried in vain; even blows, torture from pinching, and other means were resorted to, but would not induce me to swerve from my resolution; at last they concluded that I was either born dumb, or had become so from fright at the time that the attack and slaughter of my family took place.  I was eighteen months in the harem of Osman Ali, and never spoke one word.

“Mashallah! but this is wonderful!” exclaimed the pacha ­“a woman hold her tongue for eighteen months!  Who is to believe this?”

“Not at all wonderful!” replied the old woman, “when you recollect that she was required to speak.”

Once and once only, did I nearly break through my resolution.  Two of the principal favourites were conversing in my presence.

“I cannot imagine,” said one, “what Ali can see in this little minx to be so infatuated with her.  She is very ugly ­her mouth is large ­her teeth are yellow ­and her eyes not only have no expression, but look different ways.  She has one shoulder higher than the other, and worse than all, being dumb, cannot be taught anything but dancing, which only shows her ugly broad feet.”

“That is all true,” replied the other.  “If I was Ali, I should employ her as a common slave; she is fit for nothing but to roll up and beat carpets, boil rice, and prepare our coffee.  A little of the slipper on her mouth would soon bring her to her senses.”

I must own that I was near breaking through my resolution, that I might have indulged my revenge, and had not the door suddenly opened, I should have proved to them that I could have spoken to some purpose, for never would I have ceased, until they had both been sewn up in sacks, and cast into the Bosphorus.  But I restrained myself, although my cheeks burned with rage, and I more than once put my hand to my jewelled dagger.

I was often visited by Osman Ali, who in vain attempted to make me speak; a harsh guttural sound was all which I would utter to express pain or pleasure.  At last, being convinced that I was dumb, he exchanged me with a slave-merchant for a beautiful Circassian girl.  He did not state my supposed infirmity, but gave it as a reason for parting with me, that I was too young, and required to be taught.  As soon as the bargain was struck, and the merchant had received the money which had been given by Ali to effect the exchange, I was despoiled of my dress and ornaments, and put in a litter, to be conveyed to the house of the slave-merchant.  As your highness may imagine, not a little tired of holding my tongue for a year and a half ­

“By the beard of the prophet, we can believe you on that point, good woman.  You may proceed.”

“Yes, yes, I may proceed.  You think women have no resolution, and no souls ­be it so ­and what you dignify with the name of perseverance in your own sex, you call obstinacy in ours.  Be it so ­time has been.”

I was no sooner in the litter than I let loose my tongue, and called out to the women who were appointed to conduct me to the door of the harem.  “Tell Osman Ali, that now that I am no longer his slave, I have found my tongue.”  Then closing the curtains, I was carried away.  As soon as I arrived, I told the merchant all that had passed, and the reason why Ali had parted with me.  The merchant, who was astonished at having made so good a bargain, laughed heartily at my narrative.  He told me that he intended me for the seraglio of the sultan ­flattered me by declaring that I should be certainly the favourite, and advised me to profit all I could by the masters he would provide.  In the meantime, Osman Ali having heard from the women the message I had sent, was very wroth, and came to the slave-merchant to procure me again; but the slave-merchant informed him that the Kislar Aga of the sultan had seen me, and ordered me to be reserved for the imperial seraglio; by this falsehood screening himself, not only from Ali’s importunities, but also from his vengeance.  I took the advice of my master, and in a little more than a year became a proficient in music and most other accomplishments; I also learnt to write and read, and to repeat most of the verses of Hafiz, and other celebrated poets.  At seventeen I was offered to the Kislar Aga as a prodigy of beauty and talent.  The Kislar Aga came to see me, and was astonished; he saw at once that I should immediately become first favourite; and having heard me sing and play, he demanded my price, which was enormous.  He reported me to the sultan, stating that he had never beheld such perfection, and at the same time informing him of the exorbitant demand of the slave-merchant.  The sultan, who had felt little interest in the inmates of his harem, and was anxious for novelty, ordered the sum to be paid, and I was conducted to the seraglio in a royal litter.

That I was anxious to be purchased by the sultan I confess:  my pride rebelled at the idea of being a slave, and if I was to be so, at least I wished to be the slave of the sultan.  I indulged the idea that I should soon bring him to subjection, and that the slave would lord it over her master, and that master the dispenser of life and death, honour and disgrace, to millions.  I had made up my mind how to behave; the poets I had read had taught me but too well.  Convinced that a little wilfulness would, from its novelty, be most likely to captivate one who had been accustomed to dull and passive obedience, I allowed my natural temper to be unchecked.  The second day after my arrival, the Kislar Aga informed me that the sultan intended to honour me with a visit, and that the baths and dresses were prepared.  I replied that I had bathed that morning, and did not intend to bathe again ­as for the dresses and jewels, I did not require them, and that I was ready to receive my lord the sultan, if he pleased to come.  The Kislar Aga opened his eyes with astonishment at my presumption, but not venturing to use force to one who, in his opinion, would become the favourite, he returned to the sultan, reporting to him what had passed.  The sultan, as I expected, was more amused at the novelty than affronted at the want of respect.  “Be it so,” replied he; “this Georgian must have a good opinion of her own charms.”

In the evening the sultan made his appearance, and I prostrated myself at his feet, for I did not wish to proceed too far at once.  He raised me up and appeared delighted.

“You are right, Zara,” said he; “no jewels or dress could add to the splendour of your beauty.”

“Pardon me, O gracious lord,” replied I, “but if thy slave is to please thee, may it be by her natural charms alone.  If I have the honour to continue in thy favour, let me adorn myself with those jewels which ought to decorate the chosen of her master ­but as a candidate I have rejected them, for who knows but in a few days I may be deserted for one more worthy of your preference?”

The sultan was delighted at my apology, and I certainly was pleased with him.  He was then about forty years of age, very handsome and well made; but I was still more gratified to find that my conversation amused him so much that he remained with me for many hours after his usual time for retiring.  This gave promise of an ascendancy which might survive personal charms.  But not to detain your highness, I will at once state, the sultan soon thought but of me.  Not only my personal attractions, but my infinite variety, which appeared natural, but was generally planned and sketched out previous to his visits, won so entirely upon him, that so far from being tired, his passion, I may say his love, for me was every day increased.

“Well, it may be all true,” observed the pacha, looking at the wrinkled and hideous object before him.  “What do you say, Mustapha?”

“O pacha! we know not yet her history.  The mother of your slave, as I have heard from my father, was once most beautiful.  She is still in our harem, and pooh,” said Mustapha, spitting, as if in abhorrence.

“Right, good vizier ­right ­recollect, pacha, what I have said:  time has been.”  The pacha nodded, and the old woman proceeded.

Once sure of the sultan’s affections, I indulged myself in greater liberties ­not with him, but with others; for I knew that he would laugh at the tricks I might play upon his dependents, but not be equally pleased with a want of respect towards himself; and other people of the harem were the objects of my caprice and amusement.  So far from preventing him from noticing the other women in the harem, I would recommend them, and often have them in my apartments when he would visit me, and wish to be alone.  I generally contrived to manage a little quarrel about once a month, as it renewed his passion.  In short, the sultan became, as I intended, so infatuated, that he was my slave, and at the same time I felt an ardent attachment to him.  My power was well known.  The presents which I received from those who required my good offices were innumerable, and I never retained them, but sent them as presents to the sultan, in return for those which he repeatedly sent to me.  This indifference on my part to what women are usually too fond of, increased his regard.

“By the holy Prophet but you seemed fond enough of gold just now,” observed the pacha.

“Time has been,” replied the old woman.  “I speak not of the present.”

For two years I passed a happy life; but anxious as the sultan was, as well as myself, that I should present him with an heir, that happiness was denied me, and was eventually the cause of my ruin.  The queen mother, and the Kislar Aga, both of whom I had affronted, were indefatigable in their attempts to undermine my power.  The whole universe, I may say, was ransacked for a new introduction into the seraglio, whose novelty and beauty might seduce the sultan from my arms.  Instead of counter-plotting, as I might have done, I was pleased at their frustrated efforts.  Had I demanded the woolly head of the one, and poisoned the other, I had done wisely.  I only wish I had them now; but I was a fool ­it cannot be helped ­but time has been.

Like most of the sex, the ruling passion of the sultan was vanity, a disease which shows itself in a thousand different shapes.  He was peculiarly proud of his person, and with reason, for it was faultless, with one little exception, which I had discovered, a wen, about the size of a pigeon’s egg, under the left arm.  I had never mentioned to him that I was aware of it; but a circumstance occurred which annoyed me, and I forgot my discretion.

The Kislar Aga had at last discovered a Circassian slave, who, he thought, would effect the purpose.  She was beautiful, and I had already engrossed the sultan’s attentions for more than two years.  Men will be fickle, and I expected no otherwise.  What I required was the dominion over the mind; I cared little about the sultan’s attentions to other women.  Like the tamed bird which flies from its cage, and after wandering a short time, is glad to return to its home and reassume its perch, so did I consider it would be the case with the sultan.  I never, therefore, wearied him with tears or reproaches, but won him back with smiles and good humour.  I expected that this new face would detach him for a short time, and for a fortnight he never came into my apartment.  He had never been away so long before, and I was rather uneasy.  He visited me one morning, and I asked him to sup with me.  He consented, and I invited three or four of the most beautiful women of the seraglio, as well as the lady of his new attachment, to meet him.  I thought it wise so to do, to prove to him that I was not displeased, and trusting that the Circassian might suffer when in company with others of equal charms, who from neglect might reassume their novelty.  The Circassian was undeniably most beautiful; but, without vanity, she was by no means to be compared to me; she had the advantage of novelty, and I hoped no more, for I felt what a dangerous rival she might prove if her wit and talents were equal to her personal charms.  The sultan came, and I exerted myself to please, but, to my mortification, I was neglected; all his attentions and thoughts were only for my rival, who played her part to admiration, yielded to him that profound respect and abject adulation, which, on my part, had been denied him, and which he probably, as a novelty from a favourite, set a higher price upon.  At last I was treated with such marked insult, that I lost my temper, and I determined that the sultan should do the same.  I handed him a small apple.  “Will my lord accept this apple from the hand of his slave?  Is it not curious in shape?  It reminds me of the wen under your Majesty’s left arm.”

The sultan coloured with rage.

“Yes,” replied I, laughing, “you have one of them, you know very well.”

“Silence!  Zara,” cried the sultan, in a firm tone.

“And why should I be silent, my lord?  Have not I spoken the truth?”

“False woman! deny what you have falsely uttered.”

“Sultan, I will not deny the truth.  I will, if you command me, hold my tongue.”

“Your slave has been honoured with my lord’s attentions, and denies the assertion as a calumny,” observed my rival.

“Peace, wretch! thou hast proved thyself unworthy of the honour, by thy lying tongue.”

“I tell thee, Zara, silence! or you shall feel my indignation.”

But I was now too angry, and I replied, “My lord, you well know that I once held my tongue for eighteen months, I therefore can be silent when I choose; but I can also speak when I choose, and now I do choose to speak.  I have said it, and I will not retract my words.”

The sultan was white with rage; my life hung upon a thread; when the Circassian maliciously observed, “The bastinado might induce her to retract.”

“And shall,” exclaimed the sultan, clapping his hands.

The Kislar Aga appeared, in obedience to the sultan’s orders; the executioner of the harem, and two slaves stretched me on the floor, ­I made no resistance or complaint; my jewelled slippers were taken off, and all was ready for the disgraceful punishment.

“Now, Zara, will you retract?” said the sultan, solemnly.

“No, my lord, I will not.  I repeat that you have a wen under your left arm.”

“Strike!” cried the sultan, in a paroxysm of rage.  The bamboos fell, and I received a dozen blows.  I bore them without a cry, ­I was too much choked by my feelings.

“Now, Zara, will you retract?” exclaimed the sultan, in a subdued tone.

“Never, sultan; I will prove to you that a woman has more courage than you imagine; if I die under the punishment, my rival shall not have even the pleasure of a groan.  You ask me to retract.  I will not swerve from the truth.  You have, and you know you have, and so does that vile parasite by your side know, that you have a wen under your left arm.”  I was faint with the pain, and my voice was weak and trembling.

“Proceed,” said the sultan.

When I had received thirty blows, I fainted with the agony, and the sultan ordered them to desist.  “I trust, Zara, you are now sufficiently punished for your disobedience.”  But I heard him not; and when the sultan, perceiving that I did not reply, looked at me, his heart melted.  He felt how arbitrary, how cruel he had been.  The Circassian went to him; he ordered her in a voice of thunder to be gone, me to be unbound by the other ladies, laid on the sofa, and restoratives to be procured.  When I came to my senses, I found myself alone with the sultan.  “Oh!  Zara,” said he, as the tears stood in his eyes, “why did you tempt me thus ­why were you so obstinate?”

“My lord,” answered I, in a feeble voice, “leave your slave, and go to those who can teach their tongues to lie.  I have never deceived you, although I may have displeased you.  I have loved you with fidelity and truth.  Now that you have witnessed what I can suffer rather than be guilty of falsehood, you ought to believe me.  Take my life, my lord, and I will bless you; for I have lost you, and with you I have lost more than life.”

“Not so, Zara,” replied the sultan; “I love you more than ever.”

“I am glad to hear you say so, my lord, although it is now of no avail.  I am no longer yours, and never will be.  I am unfit to be yours; my person has been contaminated by the touch of Ethiopian slaves ­it has been polluted by the hand of the executioner ­it has been degraded by a chastisement due only to felons.  Oblige me, as a last proof of your kindness, by taking a life which is a burden to me.”

Despot as he was, the sultan was much moved; he was mortified at having yielded to his temper, and his passionate affection for me had returned.  He entreated my pardon, and shed tears over me, kissed my swelled feet, and humiliated himself so much, that my heart relented ­for I loved him dearly still.

“Zara,” exclaimed he, at last, “will you not forgive me?”

“When, my lord, have I ever shown myself jealous?  True love is above jealousy.  This evening, to please you, although I have lately been neglected, did I not request your new favourite to meet you?  In return, I was grossly insulted by neglect, and studied attentions to her.  I was piqued, and revenged myself ­for I am but a woman.  I was wrong in so doing, but having told the truth, I was right in not retracting what I had said.  Now that you have degraded me ­now that you have rendered me unworthy of you, you ask me to forgive you.”

“And again I implore it, my dearest Zara!”

“There are my jewels, my lord.  I have no other property but what I have received, and cherished as presents from you.  Your treasurer well knows that.  Take my jewels, my lord, and present them to her, they will make her more beautiful in your sight ­to me they are now worthless.  Go to her, and in a few days you will forget that ever there was such a person as the unhappy, the neglected, the disgraced, and polluted Zara.”  And I burst into tears; for even with all his ill-usage, I was miserable at the idea of parting with him; for what will not a woman forgive a man who has obtained her favour and her love?

“What can I do to prove that I repent?” cried the sultan.  “Tell me, Zara.  I have supplicated for pardon, what more can I do?”

“Let my lord efface all traces and memory of my degradation.  Was not I struck by two vile slaves, who will babble through the city?  Was not I held down by an executioner?  These arms, which have wound round the master of the world, and no other, polluted by his gripe.”

The sultan clapped his hands, and the Kislar Aga appeared.  “Quick,” exclaimed he, “the heads of the slaves and executioner who inflicted the punishment.”  In a minute the Kislar Aga appeared; he perceived how matters stood, and trembled for his own.  He held up the three heads, one after another, and then returned them to the sack of sawdust in which they had been brought.

“Are you satisfied now, Zara?”

“For myself, yes ­but not for you.  Who was it that persuaded you to descend from your dignity, and lower yourself, by yielding to the instigations of malice?  Who was it that advised the bastinado?  As a woman, I am too proud to be jealous of her; but as one who values your honour, and your reputation, I cannot permit you to have so dangerous a counsellor.  Your virgins, your omras, your princes, will all be at her mercy; your throne may be overturned by her taking advantage of her power.”

The sultan hesitated.

“Sultan, you have but to choose between two things; if she be alive to-morrow morning, I am dead by my own hand.  You know I never lie.”

The sultan clapped his hands, the Kislar Aga again appeared. “Her head,” said he, hesitatingly.  The Kislar Aga waited a little, to ascertain if there was no reprieve, for too hasty a compliance with despots is almost as dangerous as delay.  He caught my eye ­he saw at once, that if not her head, it would be his own, and he quitted the room.  In a few minutes he held up by its fair tresses the head of my beautiful rival; I looked at the distorted features, and was satisfied.  I motioned with my hand, and the Kislar Aga withdrew.

“Now, Zara, do you forgive me?  Now do you believe that I sincerely love you, and have I obtained my pardon?”

“Yes,” replied I, “I do, sultan; I forgive you all; and now ­I will permit you to sit by me and bathe my feet.”

From that day I resumed my empire with more despotic power than ever.  I insisted that I should refuse his visits when I felt so inclined; and when I imagined that there was the slightest degree of satiety on his part, he was certain to be refused admittance for a fortnight.  I became the depositary of his secrets and the mover of his counsels.  My sway was unlimited, and I never abused it.  I loved him, and his honour and his welfare were the only guides to my conduct.

“But your highness will probably be tired, and as I have now told how it was that I suffered the bastinado, you will perhaps wait till to-morrow for the history of the bowstring.”

“I believe that the old woman is right,” said Mustapha, yawning; “it is late.  Is it your highness’s pleasure that she shall return to-morrow evening?”

“Be it so; but let her be in close custody ­you remember.”

“Be chesm ­on my eyes be it.  Guards, remove this woman from the sublime presence.”

“It appears to me,” said the pacha to Mustapha, “that this old woman’s story may be true.  The description of the harem is so correct ­commanding one day, bastinadoed the next.”

“Who can doubt the fact, your sublime highness?  The Lord of Life dispenses as he thinks fit.”

“Very true; he might send me the bowstring to-morrow.”

“Allah forbid!”

“I pray with you; but life is uncertain, and it is our fate.  You are my vizier to-day, for instance, what may you be to-morrow?”

“Whatever your highness may decide,” replied Mustapha, not much liking the turn of the conversation.  “Am not I your slave, and as the dirt under your feet ­and shall I not bow to your sovereign pleasure, and my destiny?”

“It is well said, and so must I, if the caliph sends me a Capitan Badji, which Allah forbid.  There is but one God, and Mahomet is his Prophet.”

“Amen,” replied Mustapha.  “Will your highness drink of the water of Giaour?”

“Yes, truly; for what says the poet?  ’We are merry to-day and to-morrow we die.’”

“Min Allah; God forbid!  That old woman has lived a long while, why shouldn’t we?”

“I don’t know; but she has had the bowstring and is not yet dead.  We may not be so fortunate.”

“May we never have it at all; then shall we escape, O pacha.”

“True, Mustapha; so give me the bottle.”