CHAPTER XIV.
OLAJ BEG.

As the princely pair stood on the castle battlements, the din of the town grew deeper, and suddenly the rumble of a carriage, driven at full tilt, broke upon the dreamy stillness of the castle courtyard, and dashing into it stopped before the staircase; the door of the coach was quickly thrown open and out of it rushed a pale woman, who, rallying her last remaining strength, ran up the staircase and collapsed at the feet of the Prince as he hastened to meet her, exclaiming as she did so:

"I am Mariska Sturdza."

"For the love of God," cried the agitated Prince, "why did you come here? You have destroyed the state and me; you have brought ruin on yourself and on us."

The unfortunate lady was unable to utter another word. Her energy was exhausted. She lay there on the marble floor, half unconscious.

The Princess Apafi summoned her ladies-in-waiting, who, at her command, hastened to raise the lady in their arms and began to sprinkle her face with eau-de-Cologne.

"I cannot allow her to be brought into my house," cried the terrified Apafi; "it would bring utter destruction on me and my family."

The Princess cast a look full of dignity upon her husband.

"What do you mean? Would you hand this unfortunate woman over to her pursuers? In her present condition, too? Suppose I was obliged to fly in a similar plight, would you fling me out upon the high road instead of offering me a place of refuge?"

"But the wrath of the Sultan?"

"Yes; and the contempt of posterity?"

"Then would you have me bring ruin upon my throne and my family for the sake of a woman?"

"Better perish for the sake of a woman than do that woman to death. If you shut your rooms against her, I will open mine wide to receive her, and then you can tell the Sultan if you like that I have taken her."

Apafi felt that his wife's obstinacy was getting him into a hideous muddle. This audacious woman would listen to no reasons of state in any matter which interested her humanity.

What was he to do? He pitied the persecuted lady from the bottom of his heart, but the emissary of the Sublime Porte, Olaj Beg, had come to demand her with plenipotentiary power. If he did not shelter the persecuted lady he would pronounce himself a coward in the face of the whole world; if he did shelter her, the Porte would annihilate him!

In the midst of this dilemma, one of the gate-keepers came in hot haste to announce that a band of Turkish soldiers was at that moment galloping along the road, inquiring in a loud voice for the Princess of Wallachia.

Apafi leant in dumb despair against a marble pillar whilst Anna quickly ordered her women to carry the unconscious lady to her innermost apartments and summon the doctor. She then went out on the balcony, and perceiving that the cavasses had just halted in front of the palace, she cried to the gate-keepers:

"Close the gates!"

Apafi would have very much liked to have countermanded the order; but while he was still thinking about it, the gates were snapped to under the very noses of the cavasses.

They began angrily beating with the shafts of their lances against the closed gate, whereupon the Princess called down to them from the balcony with a sonorous, authoritative voice:

"Ye good-for-nothing rascals, wherefore all that racket? This is not a barrack, but the residence of the Prince. Perchance ye know it not, because fresh human heads are wont to be nailed over the gates of your Princes every day as a mark of recognition? If that is what you are accustomed to, your error is pardonable."

The cavasses were considerably startled at these words, and, looking up at the imperious lady, began to see that she really meant what she said. For a while they laid their heads together, and then turned round and departed.

Apafi sighed deeply.

"There is some hidden trick in this," said he, "but what it is God only knows."

A few moments later a müderris appeared from Olaj Beg at the gate of the Prince, and, being all alone, was admitted.

"Olaj Beg greets thee, and thou must come to him quickly," said he.

Anna had drawn near to greet her guest, but hearing that Olaj Beg summoned the Prince to appear before him, she approached the messenger, boiling over with wrath.

"Whoever heard," she said, "of a servant ordering his master about, or an ambassador summoning the Prince to whose Court he is accredited?"

But Apafi could only take refuge in a desperate falsehood.

"Poor Olaj Beg," he explained, "is very sick and cannot stir from his bed, and, indeed, he humbly begs me to pay him a visit. There is no humiliation in this—none at all, if I am graciously pleased to do it. He is an old man of eighty. I might be his grandson, he is wont to scold me as if I were his darling; I will certainly go to him, and put this matter right with him. You go to your sick guest and comfort her. I give you my word I will do everything to get her set free. For her sake I will humble myself."

The Princess Apafi's foresight already suggested to her that this humiliation would be permanent, but, perceiving that her own strength of mind was not contagious, she allowed her husband to depart.

Apafi prepared himself for his visit upon Olaj Beg. With a peculiar feeling of melancholy he did not put on his princely dolman of green velvet, but only the köntös of a simple nobleman, imagining that thus it would not be the Prince of Transylvania but the squire of Ebesfalu who was paying a visit on Olaj Beg. He went on foot to the house of Olaj Beg, accompanied by a single soldier, who had to put on his everyday clothes.

The dogs had been let loose in the courtyard, for the Beg was a great protector of animals, and used to keep open table in front of his dwelling for the wandering dogs of every town he came to.

Making his way through them, Apafi had to cross a hall and an ante-chamber, brimful with praying dervishes, who, squatting down with legs crossed, were reading aloud from books with large clasps, only so far paying attention to each other as to see which could yell the loudest.

The Prince did not address them, as it was clear that he would get no answer, but went straight towards the third door.

The chamber beyond was also full of spiders'-webs and dervishes, but a red cushion had been placed in the midst of it, and on this cushion sat a big, pale, grey man in a roomy yellow caftan. He also was holding a large book in front of him and reading painfully.

Apafi approached, and even ventured to address him.

"Merciful Olaj Beg, my gracious master, find a full stop somewhere in that book of yours, turn down the leaf at the proper spot, put it down, and listen to me."

Olaj Beg, on hearing the words of the Prince, put the book aside, and turning with a sweet and tender smile towards him, remarked with emotion:

"The angels of the Prophet bear thee up in all thy ways, my dear child. Heaven preserve every hair of thy beard, and the Archangel Izrafil go before thee and sweep every stone from thy path, that thy feet may not strike against them!"

With these words the Beg graciously extended his right hand to be kissed, blinking privily at the Prince; nor would Apafi have minded kissing it if they had been all alone, but in the presence of so many dervishes it would have been derogatory to his dignity; so, instead of doing so, he took the Beg's hand and provisionally placed it in his left hand and gave it a resounding thump with his right, and then shook it amicably as became a friend.

"Don't trouble thyself, my dear son, I will not suffer thee to kiss my hand," cried Olaj Beg, drawing back his hand and making a show of opposition so that everyone might fancy that Apafi was angry with him for not being allowed to kiss it.

"You have deigned to send for me," said Apafi, taking a step backwards; "tell me, I pray, what you desire, for my time is short. I am overwhelmed with affairs of state."

These last words Apafi pronounced with as majestic an intonation as possible.

Olaj Beg thereupon folded his hands together.

"Oh, my dear son!" said he, "the princely dignity is indeed a heavy burden. I see that quite well, nor am I in the least surprised that thou wishest to be relieved of it; but be of good cheer, the blessing of Heaven will come upon us when we are not praying for it; when thou dost least expect it the Sublime Sultan will have compassion upon thee, and will deliver thee of the heavy load which presses upon thy shoulders."

Apafi wrinkled his brows. The exordium was bad enough; he hastened towards the end of the business.

"Perchance, you have heard, gracious Olaj Beg! that the unfortunate Mariska Sturdza has taken refuge with us."

"It matters not," signified the Beg, with a reassuring wave of the hand.

"She took refuge in my palace without my knowledge," observed Apafi apologetically, "and what could I do when she was all alone? I couldn't turn her out of my house."

"There was no necessity. Thou didst as it became a merciful man to do."

"If you had seen her you would yourself have felt sorry for her—sick, half-dead, desperate, she flung herself at my feet, imploring compassion, and before I could reply to her she had fainted away. Perhaps even now she is dead."

"Oh, poor child!" cried Olaj Beg, folding both his hands and raising his eyes to Heaven.

"Her husband had left her in great misery, and alone she plunged into jeopardy," continued Apafi, trying to justify the persecuted woman in every possible manner.

"Oh, poor, unhappy child!" cried Olaj Beg, shaking his head.

"And more than that," sighed Apafi, "the poor woman is big with child."

"What dost thou say?"

"Yes, sir, and flying day and night in all sorts of weathers from her pursuers in such a condition, you can imagine her wretched condition; she was scarce alive, she was on the very threshold of death."

"Allah be gracious to her and extend over her the wings of his mercy!"

Apafi began to think that he had found Olaj Beg in a charitable humour.

"I knew that you would not be angry about her."

"I am not angry, my son, I am not angry. My eyes overflow at her sad fate."

"She, you know, had no share in her husband's faults."

"Far from it."

"And it would not be right that an innocent woman should atone for what her husband has committed."

"Certainly not."

"Then do you think, my lord, that the Sublime Sultan will be merciful to this woman?"

"What a question! Have no fear for her!"

Apafi was not so simple as not to be struck by this exaggerated indulgence, the more satisfactory were the Beg's replies the keener grew his feeling of anxiety. At last, much perturbed, he ventured to put this question:

"Gracious Beg! will you allow this unfortunate woman to rest in peace at my house, and can you assure me that the Sublime Sultan will espouse her cause?"

"The Holy Book says: 'Be merciful to them that suffer and compassionate them that weep.' Therefore, behold I grant thee thy desire: let this poor innocent woman repose in thy house in peace, let her rest thoroughly from her sufferings and let her enjoy the blessedness of peace till such time as I must take her from thee by the command of the Grand Seignior."

Apafi felt his brain reel, so marvellous, so terrible was this graciousness of the Turk towards him.

"And when think you you will require this woman to be handed over?"

Olaj Beg, with a reassuring look, tapped Apafi on the shoulder, and said with a voice full of unction:

"Fret not thyself, my dear son! In no case will it be earlier than to-morrow morning."

Apafi almost collapsed in his fright.

"To-morrow morning, do you say, my lord?"

"I promise thee she shall not be disturbed before."

Apafi perceived that the man had been making sport with him all along. Rage began to seethe in his heart.

"But, my lord, I said nothing about one day. One day is the period allowed to condemned criminals."

"Days and seasons come from Allah, and none may divide them."

"Damn you soft sawder!" murmured Apafi between his teeth. "My lord," he resumed, "would you carry away with you a sick woman whom only the most tender care can bring back from the shores of Death, and who, if she were now to set out for Buda, would never reach it, for she would die on the way?"

Olaj Beg piously raised his hands to Heaven.

"Life and death are inscribed above in the Book of Thora, and if it there be written in letters embellished with roses and tulips that Mariska Sturdza must die to-morrow, or the day after to-morrow, die she will most certainly, though she lay upon musk and were anointed with the balm of life, and neither the prayers of the saints nor the lore of the Sages could save her—but if it be written that she is to live, then let the Angels of Death come against her with every manner of weapon and they shall not harm her."

Apafi saw that he would have to speak very plainly to this crafty old man.

"Worthy Olaj Beg! you know that this realm has a constitution which enjoins that the Prince himself must not issue ordinances in the more weighty matters without consulting his counsellors. Now, the present case seems to me to be so important that I cannot inform you of my resolution till I have communicated it to my council."

"It is well, my dear son, I have no objection. Speak with those servants of thine whom thou hast made thy masters; sit in thy council chamber and let the matter be well considered as it deserves to be; and if thereafter ye decide that the Princess shall accompany me, I will take her away and take leave of thee with great honour; but if it should so fall out that ye do not give her up to me, my dear son, or should allow her to escape from me—then will I take thee instead of her, together with thy brave counsellors, my sweet son."

The Beg said these words in the sweetest, tenderest voice, as old grandfathers are wont to address their grandchildren, and descending from his pillows he stroked the Prince's face with both his hands, and kissed him on the temples with great good will, quite covering his head with his long white beard.

Apafi felt as if the whole room were dancing around him. He did not speak a word, but turned on his axis and went right out. He himself did not know how he got through the first door, but by the time he had shut the second door behind him he bethought him that he was still the Prince of Transylvania, and by descent one of the first noblemen of the land, whereas Olaj Beg was only a nasty, dirty Turkish captain, who had been a camel-driver in the days of his youth, and yet had dared to speak to him, the Prince, like that! By the time he had reached the third door he had reflected that in the days when he was nothing but the joint-tenant of Ebesfalu, if Olaj Beg had dared to treat him so shamefully, he would have broken his bald head for him with a stout truncheon. But had he not just such a stout truncheon actually hanging by his side? Yes, he had! and he would go back and strike Olaj Beg with it, not exactly on the head perhaps, but, at any rate, on the back that he might remember for the rest of his life the stylus curialis of Transylvania.

And with that he turned back from the third door with very grave resolves.

But when he had re-opened the second door he bethought him once more that such violence might be of great prejudice to the realm, and besides, there was not very much glory after all in striking an old man of eighty. But at any rate he would tell him like a man what it had not occurred to him to say in the first moment of his surprise.

So when he had opened the first door and was in the presence of Olaj Beg, he stood there on the threshold with the door ajar, and said to him in a voice of thunder:

"Hearken, Olaj Beg! I have come back simply to tell you——"

Olaj Beg looked at him.

"What dost thou say, my good son?"

"This," continued Apafi in a very much lower key, "that it will take time to summon the council, for Béldi lives at Bodola, Teleki at Gernyeszeg, Csaky at Déva, and until they come together you can do what you think best: you may remain here or go"—and with that he turned back, and only when he had slammed to the door he added—"to hell!"

CHAPTER XV.
THE WOMEN'S DEFENCE.

It could be seen from the Prince's face that for at least two hours Teleki had been filling his head with talk. Nalaczi greeted everyone present with a courtly smile, but nobody smiled back at him. Teleki, with cold gravity, led the Prince to the throne. The latter on first looking up at the throne, stood before it as if thunderstruck, and seemed to be deliberating for a moment whether it ought not to be taken away and a simple chair put in its place. But after thinking it well out he mounted the steps, and, sighing deeply, took his seat upon it.

Michael Teleki stood silent in his place for some time, as if he was collecting his thoughts. His eyes did not travel along the faces of those present as they generally did to watch the effect of his words, but were fixed on the clasp of his kalpag, and his voice was much duller than at other times, often sinking to tremulous depths, except when he pulled himself together and tried to give it a firmer tone.

"Your Highness, your Excellencies,—God has reserved peculiar trials for our unfortunate nation. One danger has scarce passed over us when we plump into another; when we try to avoid the lesser perils, we find the greater ones directly in our path, and we end in sorrow what we began in joy. Scarcely have we got over the tidings of the battle of St. Gothard (we had our own melancholy reasons for not participating therein), and the consequent annihilation of the far-reaching designs of the Turkish Empire, by the peace contracted between the two great Powers, amidst whose quarrels our unhappy country is buffeted about as if between hammer and anvil, when we have a fresh and still greater occasion for apprehension. For the generals of the Turkish Sultan impute the loss of the battle to the premature flight of Prince Ghyka, and at the same time hold us partly responsible for it—and certainly, had our soldiers stood in the place of the Wallachian warriors, although they would not have liked fighting their fellow-Magyars, nevertheless, if once they had been in for it, they would not have ran away and so the battle would not have been lost—wherefore the wrath of the Sublime Sultan was so greatly kindled against both the neighbouring nations, that he sent his cavasses to seize the Prince of Moldavia and carry him in chains to Stambul with his whole family. As for Transylvania, but for the mercy of God and the goodwill of certain Turkish statesmen, we might have seen it suddenly converted into a sandjak or province, and a fez-wearing Pasha on the throne of his Highness. Now it has so happened that the Prince of Moldavia, wresting himself and his wife out of the hands of their pursuers, took the shortest road to Transylvania. We sent a message to them that on no account were they to try to come here, as their flight would cost us more than a Tartar invasion. The Prince, therefore, took refuge in the mountains, but let his wife continue her journey, and, in an evil hour for us and herself, she arrived here a few days ago with the knowledge and under the very eyes of the Sultan's plenipotentiary. The husband having escaped, the whole wrath of the Sultan is turned upon the wife and upon us also if we try to defend her. What, then, are we to do? If we had to choose between shame and death, I should know what to say; but here our choice is only between two kinds of shame: either to hand over an innocent, tender woman, who has appealed to us for protection, or see a Turkish Pasha sitting on the throne of the Prince!"

"But there's a third course, surely," said Béldi, "by way of petition?"

"I might indeed make the request," interrupted Apafi, "but I know very well what answer I should get."

"I do not mean petitioning the envoy," returned Béldi. "Who would humiliate himself by petitioning the servant when he could appeal to the master?"

At this Apafi grew dumb; he could not bring forward the fact that he had already petitioned the servant.

"I believe that Béldi is right," said young Michael Bethlen, "and that is the only course we can take. I am well acquainted with the mood of an eastern Despot when he gets angry, and I know that at such times it is nothing unusual for him to level towns to the ground and decapitate viceroys; but fortunately for Transylvania it is situated in Europe, where one state has some regard for another, and it is the interest of all the European kingdoms to maintain a free state between themselves and the Ottoman Empire, even if it be only a small one like Transylvania. And it seems to me that if our petition be supported at Stambul by the French, Austrian, and Polish ambassadors, there will be no reason for the Sultan, especially after such a defeat as the last one, to send a Pasha to Transylvania. And, finally, if we show him that our swords have not rusted in their scabbards, and that we know how to draw them on occasion, he will not be disposed to do so."

The youth's enthusiastic speech began to pour fresh confidence into the souls of those who heard him, and their very faces appeared to brighten because of it.

Teleki shook his head slowly.

"I tell your Excellencies it will be a serious business," said he. "I am obliged to arouse you from an agreeable dream by confronting you with a rigorous fact. Europe has not the smallest care for our existence; we only find allies when they have need of our sacrifices; let us begin to petition, and they know us no more. It is true that at one time I said something very different, but time is such a good master that it teaches a man more in one day than if he had gone through nine schools. In consequence of the battle of St. Gothard, peace has been concluded between the two Emperors. I have read every article of it, every point, and we are left out of it altogether, as if we were a nation quite unworthy of consideration. Yet the French, the English, and the Polish ministers were there, and I can say that not one of them received so much pay from his own court as he received from us. If they want war, oh! then we are a great and glorious nation; but when peace is concluded they do not even know that we are there. In war we may lead the van, but in the distribution of rewards we are left far behind. And now the Pasha of Buda, who is bent upon our destruction and would like to set a pasha over Transylvania, after the last defeat, has sent down Yffim Beg to us to go from village to village demanding why the arrears of taxes have not been paid, and then he is coming to the Prince to ask the cause of the remissness and threaten him with the vengeance of the Pasha of Buda."

There was a general murmur of indignation.

"Ah, gentlemen, let us confess to each other that we play at being masters in our own home, but in fact we are masters there no longer. We may trust to our efforts and rely upon our rights, but we have none to help us; we have no allies either on the right hand or on the left; we have only our masters. We may change our masters, but we shall never win confederates. The Power which stands above us is only awaiting an opportunity to carry out its designs upon us, and no one could render it a better service in Transylvania than by raising his head against it. We have all of us a great obligation laid upon us: to recognise the little we possess, take care to preserve it, and, if the occasion arise, insist upon it. It is true that while the sword is in our hands we may defend all Europe with it; but let our sword once be broken and our whole realm falls to pieces and the heathen will trample upon us in the sight of all the nations. We shall bleed for a half-century or so, and nobody will come to our assistance; the gates of our realm will be guarded by our enemies; and, like the scorpion in a fiery circle, we shall only turn the bitterness of our hearts against ourselves. Do you want reasons, then, why we should not defend those hunted creatures who seek a refuge with us? The World and Fate have settled their accounts with us; this realm is left entirely to its own devices. Matters standing thus, if we refuse to deliver up to Olaj Beg the above-mentioned Princess of Moldavia, the armies of the Pashas of Buda and Grosswardein will instantly receive orders to reduce Transylvania to the rank of a vassal state of the Porte. There is no room here for regret or humanity, self-preservation is our one remaining duty and the duty of self-preservation demands that where we have no choice, we should do voluntarily what we may be forced to do."

Teleki had scarce finished these words than an attendant announced that the Princess of Moldavia requested admittance into the council chamber.

Apafi would have replied in the negative, but Teleki signified that she might as well come in.

A few moments later the attendant again appeared and requested permission for the ladies of the Princess's suite to accompany their mistress, as she was too weak to walk alone.

Teleki consented to that also.

The counsellors cast down their eyes when the door opened. But there is a sort of spell which forces a man to look in the very direction in which he would not, in which he fears to look, and lo and behold! when the door opened and the hunted woman entered with her suite, a cry of astonishment resounded from every lip. For of what did the woman's suite consist? It consisted of the most eminent ladies of Transylvania. The wives and daughters of all the counsellors present accompanied the unfortunate lady, foremost among them being the Princess and Dame Michael Teleki, on whose shoulders she leaned; and last of all came old Dame Bethlen, with dove-white hair. All the most respectable matrons, the loveliest wives, and fairest maidens of the realm were there.

The unfortunate Princess, whose pale face was full of suffering, advanced on the arms of her supporters towards the throne of the Prince. Her knees tottered beneath her, her whole body trembled like a leaf, she opened her lips, but no sound proceeded from them.

"Courage, my child," whispered Anna Bornemissza, pressing her hand; whereupon the tears suddenly burst from the eyes of the unfortunate woman, and, breaking from her escort, she flung herself at the feet of the Prince, embracing his knees with her convulsive arms, and raising towards him her tear-stained face, exclaimed with a heart-rending voice: "Mercy! ... Mercy!"

A cold dumbness sat on every lip; it was impossible for a time to hear anything but the woman's deep sobbing. The Prince sat like a statue on his throne, the steps of which Mariska Sturdza moistened with her tears. The silence was painful to everyone, yet nobody dared to break it.

Teleki smoothed away his forelock from his broad forehead, but he could not smooth away the wrinkles which had settled there. He regretted that he had given occasion to this scene.

"Mercy!" sobbed the poor woman once more, and half unconsciously her hand slipped from Apafi's knees. Aranka Béldi rushed towards her and rested her declining head on her own pretty childlike bosom.

Then Anna Bornemissza stepped forward, and after throwing a stony glance upon all the counsellors present, who cast down their eyes before her, looked Apafi straight in the face with her own bright, penetrating, soul-searching eyes, till her astonished husband was constrained to return her glance almost without knowing it.

"My petition is a brief one," said Dame Apafi in a low, deep, though perfectly audible voice. "An unfortunate woman, whom the Lord of Destiny did not deem to be sufficiently chastened by a single blow, has lost in one day her husband, her home, and her property; she implores us now for bare life. You see her lying in the dust asking of you nothing more than leave to rest—a petition which Dzengis Khan's executioners would have granted her. That is all she asks, but we demand more. The destiny of Transylvania is in your hands, but its honour is ours also; ye are summoned to decide whether our children are to be happy or miserable. But speak freely to us and say if you wish them to be honourable men or cowards. And I ask you which of us women would care to bear the name of a Kornis, a Csaky, or an Apafi, if posterity shall say of the bearers of these names that they surrendered an innocent woman to her heathen pursuers and constrained their own sons thereby to renounce the names of their fathers? Look not so darkly upon me, Master Michael Teleki, for my soul is dark enough without that. An unhappy woman is on her knees before you, hoping that she will find you to be men. The women of Transylvania stand before you, hoping to find you patriots. We beg you to have compassion for the sake of the honour of our children."

Teleki, upon whom the eyes of the Princess had flashed fiercely during the speech, as if accepting the challenge, answered in a cold, stony voice:

"Here, madam, we dispense justice only, not mercy or honour."

"Justice!" exclaimed Anna. "What! If a husband has offended, is his innocent wife, whose only fault is that she loves the fugitive, is she, I say, to suffer punishment in his stead? Where is the justice of that?"

"Justice is often another name for necessity."

"Then who are all ye whom I see here? Are ye the chief men of Transylvania or Turkish slaves? This is what I ask, and what we should all of us very much like to know: is this the council chamber of the free and constitutional state of Transylvania, or is it the ante-chamber of Olaj Beg?"

The gentlemen present preserved a deep silence. This was a question to which they could not give a direct answer.

"I demand an answer to my question," cried Dame Apafi in a loud voice.

"And what good will the answer do you, my lady?" inquired Teleki, pressing his index-finger to his lips.

"I shall at any rate know whether the place in which we now stand is worthy of us."

"It is not worthy, my lady. The present is no time for the Magyars to be proud that they dwell in Transylvania; we are ashamed to be the responsible ministers of a down-trodden, deserted, and captive nation. This your Highness ought to know as well as any of us, for it was a Turkish Pasha who placed your husband on the Prince's seat. And, assuredly, it would be a far less grief to us to lose our heads than to bend them humbly beneath the derisive honour of being the leaders of a people lying among ruins. But, at the most, history will only be able to say of us that we humbly bowed before necessity, that we bore the yoke of the stranger without dignity, that running counter to the feelings of our hearts and the persuasions of our minds, we covered our faces with shame, and yet that that very shame and dishonour saved the life of Transylvania, and that poor spot of earth which remained in our hands saved the whole country from a bloody persecution. We are the victims of the times, madam; help us to conceal the blush of shame and share it with us. There, you have the answer to your question."

Dame Apafi grew as pale as death, her head drooped, and she clasped her hands together.

"So we have come to this at last? Formerly valour was the national virtue, now it is cowardice. What is our own fate likely to be if we reject this poor woman? What has happened to-day to a Princess Ghyka might easily happen to the wives of Kornis and Csaky and Béldi to-morrow. For their husbands' faults they may be carried away captive, brought to the block, if only God does not have mercy upon them, for you yourselves say that this would be right. Why do you look at us? You, Béldi, Kornis, Teleki, Csaky, Bethlen, here stand your wives and daughters. Draw forth your coward swords, and if you dare not slay men, at least slay women; kill them before it occurs to the Turkish Padishah to drag them by the hair into his harem."

As Dame Apafi mentioned the names of the men one after another, their wives and daughters, loudly weeping, rushed towards them, and hiding their heads in their bosoms, with passionate sobs, begged for the unfortunate Princess, and behold the eyes of the men also filled with tears, and nothing could be heard in the room but the sobbing of the husbands mingled with the sobbing of their wives.

On Teleki's breast also hung the gentle Judith Veér and his own daughter Flora, and the great stony-hearted counsellor stood trembling between them; and although his cast-iron features assumed with an effort a rigorous expression, nevertheless a couple of unrestrainable tears suddenly trickled down the furrows of his face.

The Prince turned aside on his throne, and covering his face, murmured: "No more, Anna! No more!"

"Oh, Apafi!" cried the Princess bitterly; "if perish I must it shall not be by your hand. Anna Bornemissza has strength enough to meet death if there be no choice between that and shame. Be content, if Olaj Beg demands my death, I shall at least be spared the unpleasantness of falling at your feet in supplication. And now, pronounce your decision, but remember that every word you say will resound throughout the Christian world."

Teleki dried the tears from his face, made his wife and daughter withdraw, and said in a voice tremulous with emotion:

"In vain should I deny it, my tears reveal that I have a feeling heart. I am a man, I am a father, and a husband. If I were nothing but Michael Teleki, I should know how to sacrifice myself on behalf of persecuted innocence; and if my colleagues around me were only companions-in-arms, I should say to them, gird on your swords, lie in wait, rush upon the Turkish escort of the Princess, and deliver her out of their hands—if we perish, a blessing will be upon us. But in this place, in these chairs, it is not ourselves who feel and speak. The life, the death of all Transylvania depends upon us. And my last word is that we incontinently deliver up Mariska Sturdza to the ambassador of the Porte. If my colleagues decide otherwise, I will agree to it, I will take my share of the responsibility, but I shall have saved my soul anyhow. Speak, gentlemen, and if you like, vote against me."

The silence of death ensued, nobody spoke a word.

"What, nobody speaks?" cried Dame Apafi in amazement. "Nobody! Ah! let us leave this place! There is not a man in the whole principality."

And with these words the lady withdrew from the council chamber. Her attendants followed her sorrowfully, one by one, tearfully bidding adieu to the unfortunate Princess. Aranka Béldi was the last to part from her. During the whole of this mournful scene her eyes had remained tearless, but she had knelt down the whole time by Mariska's side, holding her closely embraced, and assuring her that God would deliver her, she must fear nothing.

When all the ladies had withdrawn, and Dame Béldi beckoned her daughter to follow her, she tenderly kissed the face of her friend and whispered in her ear: "I have still hope, fear not, we will save you!" and smiling at her with her bright blue eyes like an angel of consolation, got up and withdrew.

The Princess, tearless, speechless, then allowed herself to be conducted away by the officers of the council chamber.

The men remained sitting upon their chairs, downcast and sorrowful. Every bosom was oppressed, and every heart was empty, and the thought of their delivered fatherland was a cold consolation for the grief they felt that the Government of Transylvania should fling an innocent woman back into the throat of the monster which was pursuing her.

The silence still continued when, suddenly, the door was violently burst open, and shoving aside the guards right and left, Yffim Beg entered the room. He had been sent by Hassan Pasha to levy contributions on the Prince and the people.

The rough Turkish captain looked round with boorish pride upon the silent gentlemen, who were still depressed by the preceding incident, and perceiving that here he had to do with the humble, without so much as bowing, he strode straight up to the Prince, and placing one foot on the footstool before the throne, and throwing his head haughtily back, flung these words at him:

"In the name of my master, the mighty Hassan Pasha, I put this question to thee, thou Prince of the Giaurs, why hast thou kept back for so long the tribute which is due to the Porte? Who hath caused the delay—thou, or the farmers of the taxes, or the tax-paying people? Answer me directly, and take care that thou liest not!"

The Prince looked around with wrinkled brows as if looking for something to fling at the head of the fellow. He regretted that the inkstand was so far off.

But Teleki handed a sheet of parchment to Sárpataky, the clerk of the council.

"Read our answer to the Pasha's letter," said he; "as for you—sir I will not call you—listen to what is written therein. 'Beneficent Hassan Pasha, we greatly regret that you bother yourself about things which are already settled. We do not ask you why you came so late to the battle of St. Gothard. Why do you ask us, then, why we are so late with the taxes? We will answer for ourselves at the proper time and place. Till then, Heaven bless you, and grant that misfortune overwhelm you not just when you would ruin others.' When you have written all that down, hand it to his Highness the Prince for signature."

The gentlemen present had fallen from one surprise into another. Michael Teleki, who a moment before, against the inclinations of his own heart and mind, had tried to compel the land to submit to the demand of Olaj Beg, could in the next moment send such a message to the powerful Vizier of Buda.

But Teleki knew very well that the storm which was passing over the country on account of the Princess of Moldavia was sure to rebound on the head of the Vizier of Buda. The Sultan was seeking for an object on which to wreak his wrath because of the lost battle, and if the Pasha of Buda did not succeed in making the Government of Transylvania the victim, he would fall a victim himself.

As for Yffim Beg, he did not quite know whether a thunder-bolt had plunged down close beside him, or whether he was dreaming. There he stood like a statue, unable to utter a word, and only looked on stupidly while the letter was being written before his very eyes, while Apafi's pen scraped the parchment as he subscribed his signature, while they poured the sand over it, folded it up, impressed it with an enormous seal, and thrust it into his palm.

Only then did he emerge somewhat from his stupor.

"Do ye think I am mad enough to carry this letter back with me to Buda?"

And with these words he seized the letter at both ends, tore it in two, and flung it beneath the table.

"Write another!" said he, "write it nicely, for my master, the mighty Hassan Pasha, will strangle the whole lot of you."

Teleki turned coldly towards him.

"If you don't like the letter, worthy müderris, you may go back without any letter at all."

"I am no müderris, but Yffim Beg. I would have thee know that, thou dog; and I won't go without a letter, and I won't let you all go till ye have written another."

And with these words he sat down on the steps of the Prince's throne and crossed his legs, so that two were sitting on the throne at the same time, the Beg and Apafi.

"Guards!" cried Apafi in a commanding voice, "seize this shameless fellow, tie him on to a horse's back and drive him out of the town."

They needed not another word. One of the guards immediately rushed forward to where Yffim Beg was still sitting on a footstool with legs crossed, and took him under the arm, while another of them grasped him firmly by the collar, and raising him thus in the air, kicking and struggling, carried him out of the room in a moment. The Beg struck, bit, and scratched, but it was all of no avail. The merciless drabants set him on the back of a horse in the courtyard, without a saddle, tied his feet together beneath the horse's belly, placed the bridle of the steed in the hands of a stable-boy, while another stable-boy stood behind with a good stout whip; and so liberally did they interpret the commands of the chief counsellor, that they escorted the worthy gentleman, not only out of the town, but beyond the borders of the realm.

CHAPTER XVI.
A FIGHT FOR HIS OWN HEAD.

Yffim Beg was not particularly pleased with this message, but without taking long to think about it, he put the damsels of the harem into carriages, sent them off along the covered way adjoining the water-gate, in order to make as little disturbance as possible, and, as soon as they were on the other side of the bridge, ordered it to be destroyed and the garrison of the fortress to defend themselves as best they could.

He reached the Turkish army to find the opposing hosts drawn up against each other on different sides of the river, across which they bombarded each other from time to time, without doing much damage.

The Pasha's pavilion was well in the rear, out of cannon-shot; he was delighted when he saw Yffim Beg, and could not take his fill of kissing Azrael, who was lovelier and more gracious than ever.

"Remain here," he said to his favourites, embracing the pair of them. "I must retire now to the interior of my pavilion to pray for an hour or so with the dervishes, for a great and grievous duty will devolve upon me in an hour's time—two great Turkish nobles, Kucsuk Pasha and his son, are to be condemned to death."

Azrael started as violently as if a serpent had crept into her bosom.

"How have they offended?" she asked, scarce able to conceal her agitation.

"Against the precepts of the Prophet they engaged in battle on a day of ill-omen; they have cast dirt on the victorious half-moon, and must wash off the stain with their blood."

Hassan withdrew; Azrael remained alone in the tent with the Beg.

"I saw thee shudder," said Yffim, fixing his sharp eyes on the face of Azrael.

"Death chooses the thirteenth; he leaped past me at this very moment."

"And on whom has the fatal thirteen fallen?"

"On someone who stands beside me or behind me."

"Behind thee in the tent outside is Feriz Beg."

"But thou art beside me."

"I am too young to die yet."

"And is not he also?"

"He of whom Hassan saith: 'He hath sinned!' becomes old and withered on the spot."

"And hast thou done nothing for which thou shouldst die?"

"My beard will grow white because of my loyalty; life is long in the shadow of Hassan."

"But how long will Hassan have a shadow?"

"Till his night cometh—but that is still far off."

"Hast thou not heard of the case of Ajas Pasha, Yffim?—of Ajas, who was the mightiest of all the Pashas?"

"He was the Sultan's son-in-law."

"The Grand Seignior gave him his own daughter to wife, and loaded him with every favour. One day Ajas lost a battle against the Zrinyis. It was not a great defeat, but the Sultan was wrath and beheaded Ajas Pasha."

"H'm! I recollect, it was a sad story."

"And dost thou remember the story of the faithful Hiassar? Ajas charged him to bring to him before his death his favourite wife, not his whole harem which thou hast brought to Hassan Pasha, but only his favourite wife, that he might take leave of her; and dost thou know that for doing this thing the Sultan had Hiassar roasted to death in a copper ox? For a disgraced favourite possesses nothing—all he had is the Sultan's, his treasures, his wives and his children; and whoever lays his hand upon them is robbing the Sultan. Who knows, Yffim Beg, but what at this moment I may not be the Sultan's slave-girl? and from slave-girl to favourite is but a step, and thou knowest it would be but a short step for me."

"What accursed things thou art saying."

"The wife of Ajas Beg was the Sultan's favourite at the time when Hiassar was burnt, and a word from her would have saved him. But she said it not, because she was wrath with him; methinks the woman loved him once, and the slave despised her love. Give me my mandoline, Yffim, I would sing a song."

The odalisk lay back upon the bed, while Yffim anxiously paced to and fro like a hyena fallen into a snare. The story just related had a striking resemblance to his own, and it would not take very much to give it a similar termination.

Suddenly he stood before the damsel, who nonchalantly strummed the strings of her instrument.

"What dost thou want?"

"Ask not what thou knowest."

"Thou wouldst save Feriz?"

"I will save him."

"I swear by Allah it is not to be done. Die he must, if only to tame thee; for if he remain alive thou wilt destroy the lot of us sooner or later."

Azrael collapsed at the feet of the Beg. Sobbing, she embraced his knees.

"Oh, be merciful! Say but a word for him to the general. I love the youth as thou canst see and dost very well know. Do not let him perish!"

Like all little souls, Yffim Beg became all the bolder at these supplicating words, and seizing Azrael by the arms, roughly pulled her to her feet, and whispered in her ear with malicious joy:

"I'll make thee a present of his head."

At these words the woman raised her head, her eyes like those of a furious she-wolf seemed to glow with green fire, her tresses curled like serpents round her bosom. She said not a word, but her tightly clenched teeth kept back a whole hell of dumb fury.

At that moment the Vizier returned.

Azrael at once put on a smile. Hassan could not see what was seething in her heart.

Yffim approached the Pasha confidentially.

"Does the Sultan know of thy disaster?"

"He has heard it since."

"It would be as well to send me with gifts to the Porte."

"Ask not that honour for thyself, Yffim; learn, rather, that whomsoever I send to Stambul now is as good as sent to Paradise. The Sultan's wrath is kindled, and he can only quench it with blood."

All the blood quitted Yffim's own face.

"Then thou hast thy fears, my master?"

"His rage demands blood, and the blood of a great man, too. Which of us? That is all one, but a great man must die. If I cannot sacrifice someone in my place I shall perish myself, but there are men of equal value to myself from whom I can choose. There are two especially—Kucsuk and his son. They began the battle; if they had not begun it, there would have been no battle; and if there had been no battle, there would have been no disaster. They are Death's sons already. The third is the Prince of Moldavia. He was the first to fly from the fight; he had a secret understanding with the Christians. He is a son of Death also. I can throw in the Prince of Transylvania also, because he kept away from the battle altogether and was late with his tribute. Had he sent it sooner, we should have had money; and if we had had money, we should have been able to have bought hay; and if we had had hay the soldiers would not have hastened on the battle and so lost it. He also is a son of Death, therefore. Go thou into Transylvania and bring him hither to me."

Azrael listened to all this with great attention. Yffim Beg regarded her with a radiant countenance, as much as to say: "You see our heads won't ache yet!"

The odalisk, however, trembled no longer; she pressed her lips tightly together, and as if she was quite certain of what she was about to do, she pressed her sweetly smiling face close to that of the Vizier, and hanging on his arms, whispered to him:

"O Hassan, how my soul would rejoice if I could see flow the blood of thine enemies."

Hassan sat the damsel on his knees, and his lips sported with her twining tresses.

Yffim Beg was in such a mighty good humour at being commissioned by Hassan to go as ambassador to the Prince of Transylvania, and so blindly exalted by such a mark of confidence, that he fancied he could well afford to torment Azrael a little.

"Whilst thou wert away, my master," said he, "thy damsel implored me to grant her a favour, which I dare not do without first asking thy permission."

Azrael regarded the smiling Beg with sparkling eyes, anxiously awaiting what he would be bold enough to betray.

"What was it?—speak, Yffim Beg," remarked Hassan wildly.

"Thou and the other Pashas are about to condemn a youth to death—young Feriz Beg, I mean."

"Well?" said Hassan frowning, while the odalisk whom he held embraced trembled all over.

"Azrael would like to see the young man die."

The girl grew pale at these words; her heart for a moment ceased to beat, and then began fiercely to throb again.

"A foolish wish," said Hassan; "but if thou desire it, be it so! Be present at the meeting of the Pashas, stand behind the curtains by my side, and thou shalt hear and see everything."

Azrael imprinted a long and burning kiss on Hassan's forehead with a face full of death, and stood behind the curtain holding the folds together with her hands.

"If thou shouldst faint," whispered Yffim Beg sarcastically, "thou shalt have a vessel of musk from me."

Azrael laughed so loudly that Yffim fancied she must have gone mad.

"And now call the Pashas and draw the curtain of the tent," commanded Hassan.

At the invitation of Yffim all the officers of the camp came to the pavilion and took their seats in a circle on cushions. Last of all came the Grand Vizier, Kiuprile, a big, stout, angry man, who, without looking at anyone, sat down on the cushion beside Hassan and turned his back upon him.

Then the roll of drums was heard, and Kucsuk Pasha and Feriz Beg, well guarded, were brought in from different sides—Kucsuk on the left hand, and Feriz on the right.

"Look!" whispered Azrael to Hassan from behind the curtain; "look how proud they are, the son on the right, the father on the left. They seem to be encouraging each other with their glances."

Hassan nodded his head as if thanking his favourite for assisting his weak eyes, and as both figures came within the obscurity of the tent, where the light was not very good at the best of times, acting on the hint given, he turned towards the aged Kucsuk Pasha and cried:

"Thou immature youth, step back till I speak to thee."

Then, turning to young Feriz Beg, he said:

"Step forward, thou hardened old traitor! Wherefore didst thou leave the armies of the Sublime Sultan in the lurch?"

Feriz Beg, as if a weapon against his persecutors had suddenly been put into his hand, stepped boldly right up to Hassan Pasha, and exclaimed in a bold voice, which rang though the tent:

"Thou art the traitor, not I; for thou darest to hold the office of general when thou art blind and canst not distinguish two paces off father from son, or an enemy from a friend."

Hassan sprang in terror from his carpet when he heard Kucsuk's son speak instead of Kucsuk.

"That is not true," he stammered, changing colour.

"Not true!" replied Feriz stiffly; "then, if thine eyes be good, wilt thou tell me what regiment is now passing thy tent with martial music?"

The tent be it understood was open towards the plain overlooking the whole camp and the river beyond.

A military band was just then crossing the ground not far from the tent, quite alone; no regiment was coming after it.

"Methinks, thou mutinous dog, 'tis no answer to my question to inquire what regiment is now passing by, for it maybe that I know better than thou why it has arrived; nor is it part of my duty to mention the rabble by name; suffice it that I hear the trumpets and see the banners."

The Pashas looked at each other; there was neither regiment nor banners.

"So that's it, eh?" said Kiuprile, spitting in front of him; and with that he rose from his place, and, without looking at Hassan, took Kucsuk and Feriz by the arm. "Come!" said he to the other generals—"you can go now!" he cried to the guards, and the whole assembly withdrew from the tent.

Hassan fell back on his carpet. He himself had betrayed his great defect.

Azrael rushed from her hiding-place.

"Oh, my master!" she cried; "thou didst wrongly interpret my words, and so made everything go wrong."

"I am lost," he stammered, and quite beside himself he plunged into the interior of the tent to pray with the dervishes.

Yffim Beg stood there as if his soul had been filched from him; while Azrael approached him with a smile of devilish scorn and stroked his face down with her hand.

"Dost thou fancy thou wilt require another good word for thee?"

"I can betray thee."

"Thou couldst if thou didst but know which of the two is to live longest—Hassan or I."

Two hours after this scene there was a private conversation between Hassan Pasha and Yffim Beg, from which even Azrael was excluded. The interview over, Yffim Beg departed quickly from the camp. The general had sent him to Transylvania to go in his name from village to village to make a general inspection, and ask the magistrates why the common folks did not pay the taxes at the proper time. He was thence to go to the Prince and ask the cause of this delay in the transmission of taxes; thus either the people or the Prince would be held responsible. Hassan for a long time had had a scheme in his head of seizing Transylvania by force of arms, whereby, on the one hand, he would win the favour of the Porte, by adding a new subject state to Turkish territory, and, on the other hand, would secure for himself a good easy princely chair instead of a dangerously-jolting general's saddle.

At the same time Olaj Beg was worrying Apafi to seize the escaped Princess of Moldavia and send her to Hassan Pasha, who was well aware that the silken cord would be constantly dangling before his eyes till he had found someone else whose neck he could jeopardise instead of his own.

Kucsuk and his son had escaped from his talons, but he had just heard from Olaj Beg that the Moldavian Princess was with Apafi, and in an interesting condition, so that there was every prospect of a young Prince being born. Here, then, in case of necessity, was a person who could be handed over, and in case she escaped, the silken cord would remain round Apafi's neck.

A few days after the departure of Yffim Beg, peace was hastily concluded between the Porte and the King of the Romans. In consequence thereof Hassan avoided a collision with the other generals, and, quitting them, hastened back to Buda with his army. Kiuprile marched right off to Belgrade, Kucsuk was dispatched to the fortress of Szekelyhid; only Feriz remained at Buda, for the simple reason that he was confined to his bed by a feverish cold in a kiosk, which was erected for him by the express command of Kiuprile.

Just about this time Azrael had an excess of devotion, and was constantly plagued by terrifying dreams in which she saw Hassan Pasha walking up and down without his head, and every morning she got leave from him to pay a visit to an old dervish to pray against the apparition of evil spirits. Hassan was much affected by this devotion towards him and true Mussulman fervour, and made no opposition to his favourite damsel going every morning to the mosque to pray, and only returning from thence late every evening; but he impressed it upon her suite to keep a watchful eye upon the girl lest she should deceive them. They therefore permitted pious Azrael to visit the worthy dervish so wrapped up that only her eyes were visible, and soon afterwards saw her return with the gracious old man. The dervish had a white beard and white eyebrows, as if he were well frosted; his eyes were cast down, and he wore such a frightfully big turban that not even the tips of his ears were visible. He was also not very lavish of speech, dumbly he pointed out to the veiled damsel the great clasped book and she knelt down before it and began to read with edifying devotion, touching it from time to time with her forehead; while the dervish, raising his hand, blessed one by one the slaves standing outside the door, and, after indicating by dumb show that he must now go to the kiosk where the sick Feriz Beg was lying and cure him by the efficacy of his prayers, he hobbled away.

All four slaves glued their faces to the iron lattice work of the door, thrust their cheeks between its ornaments, and saw how the kneeling damsel kept praying all the time before the large open book. She must have had an unconscionable fondness for prayer, for even when the evening grew late she had not moved from the spot till the dervish, leaning on his crutch, came hobbling back from Feriz Beg. Then she accompanied him into the interior of the mosque, and after a short hymn, returned to make her way back to the fortress.

And thus it went on for ten days. The slaves of her escort now began to think that Azrael wanted to learn the Koran by heart and grew tired of watching her praying and bowing and genuflecting with unwearied devotion.

Let us leave them gazing and marvelling, and seek out Feriz Beg, whom now, as at other times, the old dervish was tending.

There sat the good old man by the bedside of the pale and handsome youth. Nobody else was in the room. With his hand he dried the dripping sweat from the youth's forehead, every hour he put red healing drops into his mouth with a golden spoon, he guessed what was wanted immediately from every sigh, from every groan of the invalid. When he slept he fanned fresh air upon him, when he woke and stretched forth his burning hands, he felt the throbbing pulse and comforted and soothed him with gentle and consolatory words; and if he flung about impatiently in the fever of delirium, he covered him up carefully, like a tender mother, moistened his lips with fresh citron-water; and if he perceived from his flushed face how he was suffering he would raise his head, and press his burning temples to his bosom.

On the tenth day the youth's illness took a turn for the better. Early in the morning, when he awoke, he had a clear consciousness of his condition.

There by the side of his bed still sat the old man with his eyes fixed on the youth's face.

"So thou hast been my nurse, eh?" sighed the youth gratefully, and he extended his hand to take that of the dervish, and he respectfully impressed upon it a long burning kiss, closing his eyes piously as he did so.

And when he again opened his eyes, holding continually the kissed hand between his own hands, behold! by his bedside no longer sat the old dervish, but a young and tremulous damsel, with black tresses rolling down her shoulders, with a blushing face and timidly smiling lips—it was Azrael.

Feriz fancied that he was the sport of some delirious dream or enchantment, and only when he looked about him in his bewilderment and perceived the cast-off false beard and turban and the other lying symbols of age, did he regain his presence of mind; and immediately the expression of gratitude and devotion disappeared from the face of Feriz Beg, his features took in a rigorous expression and he withdrew his hand from the pressure of those other hands. Speak he could not, both mind and body were too much broken for that; but he pointed to the door and signified to the damsel in dumb show that she was to withdraw.

"Thou knowest me, for thou hatest me," stammered Azrael; "if thou didst not know me thou wouldst not hate me, and if thou didst know me better thou wouldst love me."

The youth shook his head.

"Then—thou—lovest—another?" said the trembling girl.

Feriz Beg nodded: yes.

Azrael rose from her place as if some venomous spider had bitten her, her face was convulsed by a burning grief, she pressed her hands to her bosom; then slowly her form lost all its proud rigidity, and her eyes their savage brightness, her features softened, and collapsing before the bed of the youth she hid her face in his pillows and murmured in a scarce audible voice: "And therefore I love thee all the more."

Then, resuming her disguise, she calmly piled upon herself all the tokens of old age till once more before the sick man stood the gentle honest dervish who hobbled away on his crutches, blessing everyone he encountered till he returned again to the mosque.

After Azrael had withdrawn, Feriz at once dismissed the dervish, who, at the youth's command, confessed everything to him. The general's favourite damsel, he said, had come to the mosque to pray ten days ago and had changed garments with him in his hiding-place in order to tend the dear invalid all day long while the dervish, enwrapped in her veil, had prayed in the sight of the slaves.

Feriz Beg threatened the dervish with death if he did not confess everything, and, as it became a true cavalier, richly rewarded him when he had revealed the secret intrigue, forbidding him at the same time to assist it any further.

Several days had passed by.

Hassan Pasha spent his days in the mosque, and his nights behind the trellised gates of his harem; he scented an evil report in every new arrival, and avoided all intercourse with his fellows. The whole day he was praying, the whole night he was drunk; from morning to evening he was occupied with the priests and the Koran, and from the evening to the morning he amused himself among his damsels, listened to their songs, bathed in ambergris-water, drank wine mingled with poppies, and had his body rubbed with cotton-wool that he might sleep and be in paradise.

Frequently he had bad dreams, an evil foreboding, like the pressure of a night-hag, lay upon his heart, and when he awoke he seemed to see it all vividly before his eyes and durst not sleep any more, but dressed himself, sought out the room of Azrael and made the damsel sit down beside him and amuse him with merry stories.