The odalisk held unlimited sway over the mind of Hassan, and could, at will, tune his mind to a good or evil humour by anticipating his thoughts. The Pasha trusted her implicitly.

It is a bad old custom with oriental potentates to go to bed fuddled and dream all manner of nonsense, and then incontinently to demand a clear interpretation of the nebulous stuff from their wise men—or wise women.

This happened to be the case one morning with Hassan Pasha and Azrael who just then was watering with a silver watering-can a gorgeous gobæa, whose luxurious offshoots clambered like a living ladder to the roof of the greenhouse, thence casting down to the ground again tendrils as thick as ropes.

"Last night I was dreaming of this very plant that thou dost nourish in yon large tub," said Hassan in a voice that sounded as if he thought it an extraordinary thing to be listening to his own words. "I dreamt that it put forth a long and flowery shoot which grew into a tall tree, and from the end of one of the branches of this tree hung a large yellow fruit. Then I thought I had some important and peculiar reason for breaking off the fruit, and I sent a big white-bearded ape up into the tree to fetch it. The ape reached the fruit, and for a long time plucked at it and shook it, but was unable to break it off. At last, however, he fell down with it at my feet, the golden fruit burst in two, and a red apple rolled out of it, and I picked them both up and was delighted. What does that signify?"

Azrael kept plucking the yellow leaves off her dear plant and throwing them through the window, beckoned to the Pasha to sit down beside her, and tapping him on the shoulder, began to tick off the events on her pretty fingers.

"The golden fruit is the Moldavian Princess, and the white ape thou didst send for her is none other than Olaj Beg. Thy dream signifies that the Beg is about to arrive with the Princess, who in the meantime has borne a son, and thou wilt rejoice greatly."

Hassan was well content with this interpretation, when a eunuch entered and brought him a sealed letter on a golden salver. It was from the Pasha of Grosswardein.

The letter was anything but pleasant. Ali Pasha begged to inform the Vizier that the Government of Transylvania, having delivered Mariska Sturdza into the hands of Olaj Beg, the Beg at once set off with her, and had got as far as Királyhágó, when some persons hidden in the forest had suddenly rushed out upon him, massacred his suite to the last man, and left the Princess' carriage empty on the high road. The Princess had in all probability been helped to rejoin her husband in Poland.

The letter fell from the hand of Hassan Pasha.

"Thou hast interpreted my dream backwards," he roared, turning upon Azrael; "everything has turned topsy-turvy. The ape descended from the tree with the fruit, but knocked his brains out."

At that moment the door-keeper announced: "Olaj Beg has arrived with the Moldavian Princess."

At these words Hassan Pasha, in the joy of his heart, leaped from his cushions, and after kissing Azrael over and over again, rushed forward to meet Olaj Beg, and meeting him in the doorway, caught him round the neck and exclaimed, beside himself with joy:

"Then my ape has not knocked his brains out, after all!"

Olaj Beg smilingly endured the title and the embrace, but on looking around and perceiving Azrael standing in the window he began doing obeisance to her with the greatest respect.

"Hast thou brought her? Where is she? Thou hast not lost her, eh? Thou hast well looked after her?" asked Hassan in one breath.

By this time Olaj Beg had bowed his head down to his very knees before the damsel, and was saying to her in a mollified voice:

"May I hope that the beautiful Princess will not find it tiresome if we talk of grave affairs in her presence?"

Azrael at once perceived the object of all this bowing and scraping. Olaj Beg wished her to withdraw.

"Thou mayest speak before me, worthy Olaj Beg, though what thou art about to say is no secret to me, for I can read the future, and my secrets I tell to none."

And now Hassan intervened.

"Thou mayest speak freely before her, worthy Olaj Beg. Azrael is the root of my life."

Olaj Beg made another deep and long obeisance.

He had heard enough of that name to need no further recommendation. He made up his mind on the spot to tell Hassan, who was in the power of this infernal woman, no more than he deserved to know.

"Then thou hast brought the Princess with thee?" insisted Hassan, whose joy beamed upon his face in spite of himself. "Did the Transylvanian gentlemen make much difficulty in handing her over?"

"They handed her over, but it would have been very much better if they had not. I should have preferred it if they had risen in her behalf, stirred up all Klausenberg against me and beaten me to death. At any rate, I should then have died gloriously. But alas! the Magyar race is degenerating, it has begun to be sensible. Those good old times have gone when they used to fire a whole village for the sake of a runaway female slave; and it was possible to seize a whole county in exchange for one burnt village; if the Hungarian gentry continue to be as wise as they are now the younger generation of them may strike root in our very Empire."

"I was alarmed on thy account, for I have just received a letter from the Pasha of Grosswardein, in which he informed me that certain persons had attacked the Princess's escort at Királyhágó and cut them down to a man."

"I anticipated that," replied Olaj Beg slily. "When with much shedding of tears they handed the Princess over to me, I heard them whisper in her ear: 'Fear nothing!' and I well understood from that that those same gentlemen who in the council chamber, with wise precautions, resolved to deliver up the fugitive Princess, had agreed among themselves over their cups at dinner-time that as I left Transylvania they would lie in wait for, fall upon me, and liberate and take away with them the Princess whom, by the way, they did not deliver over immediately, giving out that she was sick and suffering torments. While I was awaiting her recovery, nobody but her ladies was allowed admittance to her, and as soon as she was on her legs again, I made all my preparations for the journey next day, marshalling all the carriages and baggage-wagons in the courtyard. I myself, however, got into a sorry matted conveyance with the Princess and her child, and set off the same night in the direction of Déva. My suite, with the empty carriages, was to follow next morning in the direction of Grosswardein. The masked men cut them down as arranged, but the Princess and her son were in safe hands all the time. Olaj Beg is an old fox, and a fox knows his way about."

Hassan Pasha rubbed his hands delightedly.

"Nevertheless," continued Olaj Beg, "imagine not, my good general, that because this woman is now in thy hands thou wilt be able to keep her. Sleeplessness will enter thy house as soon as thou hast admitted her within thy doors. If it be hard to guard any woman, it will be particularly hard to guard this one. The men and women of a whole kingdom have sworn to set her free by force or fraud, and will use every effort to do so. They will open thy bedroom doors with skeleton keys, they will dig beneath thy cellars, they will strew sleeping powder in thy evening potions, they will corrupt thy most faithful servants, and if no other poison make any impression upon thee they will pour into thy heart the most potent of all poisons, the tears of a supplicating woman. I have brought the treasure, and I deliver it into thy hands. Allah requites me for my pains by taking her from me. Thou art now her guard, conceal her as best thou canst. Thy greatest worry will be that thou canst not slay her, for indeed she were best hidden beneath the ground. But thou art to see to it that she is delivered alive into the hands of the Sultan's envoys, for shouldst thou kill her thyself be sure thou wilt soon feel the silken cord around thine own neck. Meanwhile, peace be with thee and to all who abide in the shadow of the Prophet!"

With these words Olaj Beg stepped into the adjoining room, and leading in the Princess, placed her hand in the hand of Hassan; then he raised his eyes to Heaven.

"Allah is my witness," said he, "that I have delivered her and her child into thy hands!"

In the first moment Hassan Pasha was amazed at the woman's loveliness, and thought with regret that it was necessary for his own safety that she must die.

Olaj Beg, however, had yet another piece of good advice to impart, and, with that object, drew nigh to him to whisper in his ear; but, as if his courage failed him at the last moment, he delivered his sentiments in the Arabic tongue.

"Thou wouldst guard this woman best if thou tookest her child from her and locked it up separately. The mother certainly would not escape without the child."

The Princess Ghyka did not understand these words, but she saw how the old fox indicated her little one with a glance and with what a greedy look Hassan regarded it; and she pressed the child all the closer to her bosom as she saw him come a step closer. The unhappy woman trembled when she saw Hassan smile upon the child like a hungry wolf would smile if he encountered it on his path. She guessed from their play of feature the terrible idea which the two men were discussing in a foreign tongue, and in her despair cast her eyes upon Azrael, as if hoping that she would find a response to her agony in a woman's heart.

The odalisk pretended she had not observed the look, as if those present were not worthy of the slightest attention from her; when, however, Hassan gratefully embraced the Beg for this fresh piece of advice, Azrael intervened with a peculiar smile.

"Thou dost act like one who, bending beneath the weight of a burden too heavy for him, would pass it on to his neighbour."

Hassan looked at his favourite damsel inquiringly, while Olaj Beg, who was unaccustomed to hear women talk at all when men were holding counsel together, looked back with offended surprise over his shoulder.

Azrael reclined lazily back upon her cushions, and swung one leg over her knee as she conversed with the two men.

"Worthy Hassan," said she, "thou wouldst make two troubles out of one, if thou didst separate thy captives; while thou keepest thine eye on one of them, they will steal away the other behind thy back."

Hassan cast a troubled look upon Olaj Beg, who stroked his long white beard and smiled.

"If thou dost permit thy damsels to ask questions, thou must needs answer them," said he.

At these words Azrael leaped from her place and boldly approached the two men, her flaming black eyes measured the Beg from head to foot, and when she spoke it was with a determined, startling voice.

"Listen to me, Hassan—yes, I say, thou shouldst listen to me before all thy friends just because I am a woman. A man can only give advice, but a woman loves, and before a man thinks of danger a woman already sees it coming from afar, and while a man may grow into a crafty old fox, a woman is born crafty. Hassan knows very well that of all those who wear a mask of friendship for him, there is but one on whom he can absolutely rely, whose love all the treasures in India can as little destroy as they can lull her hatred asleep, who watches over him while he sleeps, and if she sleeps is dreaming of his destiny—that person am I."

Hassan confirmed the words of the damsel by throwing his arm round her shoulders and drawing her towards him.

"If this woman requires a sleepless, uncorruptible guardian," continued Azrael, "I will be that guardian. Make for us a long chain, and let one end of it be fastened to my arm and the other to her girdle. Thus the slave will be chained to the jailer, and, sleeping or waking, will be unable to escape from me. I shall be a good janitor. I will not let her, or her child, out of my hands."

The damsel accompanied these words with such an infernal smile that Olaj Beg involuntarily edged away from her; while Hassan was enchanted by this noble specimen of loyalty. But Mariska's face was bright and resigned again, for she understood from the words of the odalisk, threatening as they were, that she and her child were not to be separated, and to all else she was indifferent.

Olaj Beg drew the folds of his caftan over his lean, dry bosom, and after peering at the two women, remarked to Hassan:

"'Tis well thou canst trust a woman to look after a woman."

With that he backed out of the room, blessing all four corners of it as he went, and in the gateway distributed with great condescension to every one of the servants who had done anything for him some money ingeniously twisted up in pieces of paper (which, by the way, were found to contain a half-penny each when at last unfolded), and sitting in his mat-covered carriage, gave strict orders to the coachman not to look back till he saw the citadel of Buda.

But Hassan the same hour sent for his goldsmith, and bade him prepare immediately a silver chain, four yards long, with golden shackles at each end, for Azrael and Mariska. The goldsmith took the measure of the hands of the two damsels, and brought in the evening a chain made of beaten silver, whose shackles were fastened by masterly-constructed padlocks, which Hassan himself fastened on the hands of the damsels, thrusting the key which opened the padlocks into his girdle, which he tapped a hundred times a day to discover whether it was still there or not. Then he dismissed the pair of them into Azrael's dormitory. Mariska endured everything—the chain, the shame, and rough words—for the privilege of being able to embrace her child. She lay down content on the carpets as far from Azrael as the chain would permit it, and folding her hands above the baby's innocent head, prayed with burning devotion to the God of mercy, and calmly went to sleep holding the child in her arms.

A little beyond midnight the child began softly wailing. At the first sound of its crying Mariska awoke, and as she moved her hand the chain rattled. Azrael was instantly alert.

"Hast thou had evil dreams?" inquired the odalisk of Mariska; "the rattling of the chain aroused me."

"The weeping of my child awoke me," said Mariska softly; and drawing the little one to her bosom, as it embraced its mother's beautiful velvet breast with its chubby little finger, and drank from the sweetest of all sources the draught of life, the young mother gazed upon it with unspeakable joy, smiled, laughed, caught the child's rosy little fingers in her mouth, and implanted resounding kisses on its rosy, chubby cheeks. She had no thought at that moment for chain and dungeon.

Azrael felt in her heart the torments of the demons—it was that jealousy which those who are rocked in the lap of happiness feel at the sight of a luckless wretch who is happier than they are in spite of all his wretchedness.

"Wherefore dost thou rejoice?" she asked, gazing upon the lady with the eyes of a serpent.

"Because my child is with me."

"But the whole world has abandoned thee."

"It is more to me than the whole world."

"More than thy husband?"

Mariska reflected for a moment, and then, instead of replying, hugged the child still closer to her bosom and imprinted a kiss upon its forehead.

"Wert thou ever a mother?" she asked Azrael in her turn.

"Never," stammered the odalisk, and involuntarily her bosom heaved beneath a sigh.

It was plain from the face of Mariska how much she pitied this poor woman. Azrael perceived the look, and it wounded her that she should be pitied.

"Dost thou not know that both of you must die?" she asked with a darkened countenance.

"I am ready."

"And art thou not terrified at the thought? They will strangle thy child with a silken cord, and hang it dead upon thy breast, and then they will strangle thee likewise, and put you both in the grave, in the cold earth."

"We shall see each other in a better world," said Mariska with fervent devotion.

"Where?" inquired the astounded Azrael.

Mariska, with holy confidence, raised her little one in her arms, and, lifting her eyes, said: "God will take us unto Himself."

"And what need hath God of you?"

"He is the Father of those who suffer, and in the other world He rewards those who suffer grief here below."

"And who told thee this?"

Mariska, as one inspired, placed her hand upon her heart and said: "It is written here!"

Azrael regarded the woman abashed. Truly, many mysterious words are written in the heart, why cannot everyone read them? She also had listened to such mystic voices, but they were words shouted in a desert, in her savage breast there was no manner of love which could interpret their meaning.

Mariska again put down her child on the edge of the cushion.

"Place not thy child there," cried Azrael impatiently; "it might easily fall, place it between us!"

Mariska accepted the offer, and placed the little one between herself and Azrael.

When the first ray of dawn penetrated the large window Mariska awoke, and, folding her hands together above the head of the little child, again began to pray.

Azrael looked on darkly.

"Dost thou never pray?" said Mariska, turning towards her.

"Why should women pray? Their destiny is not in their own hands. Their fate depends upon their masters; if their masters are happy, they are happy also; if their masters perish, they perish with them. This is their earthly lot—and that is all. Allah never gave them a soul—what have they to do with the life beyond this? In Paradise the Houris take their places and the Houris remain young for ever. The breath of a woman vanishes with the autumn mist like the fumes of a dead animal, and Allah has no thought for them."

Mariska, with only half intelligible sorrow, looked at this woman who wished to seem worse than she really was.

Azrael crept closer up to her.

"And dost thou really believe that there is someone who listens to what the worms say, to what the birds twitter, and to what women pray?"

"Certainly," replied the young Christian woman; "turn to Him, and thou wilt feel for thyself His goodness."

"How can it be so? Why should He pay any attention to me?"

"It is not enough I know to clasp thy hands and close thy eyes. Thy petition must come straight from thy heart, and thy soul must believe that it will gain its desire."

Azrael's face flushed red. Hastily she cast herself down on her knees on the carpet, and pressing her folded hands to her bosom, stammered in a scarce audible voice:

"God! grant me one moment in my life in which I can say: I am happy."

Her eyes were still closed when the door of the dormitory opened, and Hayat, the oldest duenna of the harem, entered with an air of great secrecy. She was now a shrivelled up bundle of old bones, but formerly she had been the first favourite of Hassan Pasha, and now she was the slave and secret confidante of all the favourites in turn.

Azrael leaned towards her, perceiving from the face of the duenna that she brought some message for her; whereupon the latter advanced and, looking around in case anyone should be lurking there, whispered some words in Azrael's ear.

On hearing these words the odalisk leaped from her seat with a face flushed with joy, while unspeakably tender tears trembled in her eyes. Her hands were involuntarily pressed against her heaving bosom, and her lips seemed to murmur some voiceless prayer.

Some great unusual joy had come upon her, some joy which she had always longed but never dared to hope for. Scarce able to restrain herself she turned towards her comrade, who, after listening to her, gazed wonderingly at her and pressed her hand, exclaiming in a voice of strong conviction: "Then it is true, our prayer has indeed been heard!"

Azrael began merrily putting on her garments, and helped Mariska also to dress; then she sent the duenna with a message to Hassan. She must go again to the mosque of the old dervish to pray, for she had been dreaming of Hassan.

Soon afterwards Hassan himself came to her, took from her arm the golden shackle which fastened the chain that bound her to Mariska, and, ordering her palanquin to be brought up to the door, sent her away to the old dervish; while, seizing the end of the Princess's chain, he led her, together with her child, into his own apartments and there sat down on his cushions, drawing his rosary from his girdle and mumbling the first prayers of the naáma, constantly holding in his hand the end of the Princess's chain.

The Vizier had of late been much given to prayer, for since the lost battle not a soul had come to visit him. The envoys of the Sultan, the country petitioners, the foreign ministers, the begging brotherhoods, all of them had avoided his threshold as if he were dead.

The first day he was painfully affected by this manifestation, but on the second day he commanded the door-keepers to admit none to his presence. Thus, at any rate, he could make himself believe that if nobody came to visit him it was by his express command.

He knew right well that a sentence of death had been written down and that this sentence was meant for one of two persons, either the Princess or himself, where their two shadows mingled a double darkness was cast, and Israfil, the Angel of Death, stood over them with a drawn sword.

Hassan knew this right well, and he pressed in his hand convulsively the silver chain to which his prisoner was attached, that prisoner whom he regarded as the ransom for his own life.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE EXTRAVAGANCES OF LOVE

Flora's calculations were most just. Tököly, in those days, stood high in the favour of the Sultan, was on terms of intimacy with all the pashas and viziers, and very frequently a casual word from him had more effect than other people's supplications. And Flora showed a fine knowledge of character when she appealed to the magnanimity of the very man who had so grievously offended her, feeling certain that just for that very reason, although Tököly might not recognise the force of his former obligations, he would be magnanimous enough instantly to grant a favour to the lady who asked him for it, especially as the woman to be liberated had been the original cause of their separation.

Aranka kissed her friend over and over again when she had read this letter, and then she suddenly grew sad.

"Oh, my letter is not nearly so pretty, I am ashamed to show it to you."

Flora looked at her friend with gentle bashfulness as Aranka handed over her letter, and blushed like a red rose all the time she was perusing it.

The girls entrusted these letters to faithful servants, sending the first letter to Temesvár, where Tököly was then residing, and the second to Feriz Beg, who, as we know, lay ill at Buda.

The news first reached Tököly at supper-time. On receiving the letter and reading it through, he at once put down his glass, girded on his sword, and telling his comrades that he was about to take a little stroll, he mounted his horse and vanished from the town.

Feriz was lying half-delirious on his carpet. His health mended but slowly, as is often the case with men of strong constitutions, and the tidings of the smallest disaster which befell the Turks threw him into such a state of excitement that a relapse was incessantly to be feared, so that at last they would not allow any messages at all to be brought to him, for even when they brought good news to him he always managed to look at them from the worst side, so that news of any kind was absolute poison to him. At last his Greek physician made it a rule to read every letter addressed to his patient beforehand; and if it contained the least disturbing element, he let Feriz know nothing at all about it. What especially annoyed Feriz were any letters from women, and these were simply sent back.

Thus Aranka's letter might very easily have had the fate of being suppressed altogether had it not been entrusted to Master Gregory Biró, a shrewd and famous Szekler courier, whose honourable peculiarity it was to go wherever he was sent, and do whatsoever he was told, be the obstacles in the way what they might. If he had been told to give something to the Sultan of Turkey, he would have wormed his way to him somehow—all inquiries, all threats would have been in vain; he would have insisted on seeing and speaking to him if his head had to be cut off the next moment.

One day, then, worthy Gregory Biró appeared before the kiosk of Feriz Beg and asked to be admitted.

At these words a Moor popped out, and, seizing him by the collar, conducted him to a room where a half-dressed man was standing before a fire cooking black potions in all sorts of queer-shaped crooked glasses. The Moor presented Gregory to the doctor as another messenger.

"What is your name?" he asked, venomously regarding him from over his shoulder, and treating him to the most terrifying grimace he could think of.

"Gregory Biró," replied the Szekler, nodding his head twice as was his custom.

"Gregory, Gregory, what do you want here?"

"I want to see Feriz Beg."

"I am he; what have you brought?"

Gregory twisted his mug derisively at these words, and immediately reflected that the business was beginning badly, for the person before him did not in the least resemble Feriz Beg as described to him.

"I have brought a letter—from a pretty girl."

"Give it to me quickly, and be off."

Gregory twisted round his short jacket that he might get at his knapsack; but while he was fumbling inside it he was cute enough to extract the contents of the letter from its cover, and only handed the empty envelope to the doctor.

"'Tis well, Gregory, now you may go," said he gently, and without so much as opening the envelope he thrust it into the fire and held the blazing paper under a retort which he wanted to warm.

"Is that the way they read letters here?" asked Gregory, scratching his head, and he crept to the door; but there he stopped, and while half his body remained outside he thrust his arm up to the elbow into the long pocket of his szüre,17 drew from thence a diamond-clasp, and holding it between two fingers cried: "Look! I found this ring on the road not far from here, perchance Feriz Beg has lost it."

The doctor took the splendid jewel, and feeling convinced that only a nobleman could have lost such a thing, he said he would show it to Feriz Beg immediately.

"Ho! then you are not Feriz Beg after all!" cried the humorist.

The doctor burst out laughing.

"Gregory! Gregory! don't jest with me. I am the cook, and if I like you I will let you stay to dinner."

Gregory pulled a wry face at the sight of the doctor's stews.

The doctor thereupon took in the diamond-clasp to Feriz Beg, after bidding the Moor, whom he left behind him, not to drink anything out of the glasses standing there, or it would make him ill.

Shortly afterwards the doctor returned in great astonishment, planted himself in front of Gregory with frowning eyebrows and roared at him in a voice which alarmed even the Szekler:

"Where did you get that jewel from?"

"Where did I get it from?" said Gregory, shrugging his shoulders; he was very pleased they wanted to frighten him.

"Come, speak!—quick!"

"Not now."

"Why not?" snapped the doctor firmly.

"Not to you, if you were to break me on the wheel."

"I'll bastinado you."

"Not if you impaled me, I say."

"Gregory! If you anger me, I'll make you drink three pints of physic."

"They are here, eh!" exclaimed Gregory, approaching the hearth, skipping among the flasks of the doctor, and seizing one of them, but he had the sense to choose alcohol, and dragging it from its case, sipped away at it till there was not a drop of it left.

"Leave a little in it, you dog!" yelled the doctor, snatching the flask away from him, "don't drink it all!"

"I'll drink up the whole shop, but speak I won't unless I like."

The doctor perceived that he had met his match.

"Then will you speak before Feriz Beg?" he asked.

"I'll speak the whole truth then."

So there was nothing for it but to open Feriz Beg's door before Gregory and shove him inside.

Feriz Beg was sitting there on a couch, a feverish flush was burning upon his pale face; he still held the jewel in his hand, and his eyes were fastened upon it; just such a similar clasp he had given to Aranka Béldi when they were both children together.

"How did you come by this jewel?" inquired Feriz in a soft, mournful voice.

"She to whom you gave it gave it to me that you might believe she sent me to you."

At these words Feriz Beg arose with flashing eyes.

"She sent you to me! She! So she remembers me! She thinks of me sometimes, then."

"She sent you a letter through me."

Feriz Beg stretched out a tremulous hand.

"Where is the letter?"

"I flung it into the fire," interjected the doctor.

"How dared you do that?" exclaimed Feriz angrily.

But the doctor was not afraid.

"I am your doctor, and every letter injures your health."

"Panajot! you are an impertinent fellow!" thundered Feriz, with a face of inflamed purple; and he smote the table such a blow with his fist that all the medicine bottles tumbled off it.

"Don't be angry, sir!" said Gregory, twisting his moustache at both ends, while Panajot coolly swept together the fragments of the broken bottles and boxes on the floor; "the worthy man did not burn the letter but only the envelope. I had gumption enough not to entrust the inside of it to him."

And with these words he drew from his pouch a letter written on all four sides of the sheet and handed it to Feriz, who before reading it covered with kisses the lines traced by that dear hand, while Master Panajot looked at Gregory in amazement.

"Go along, you old fox, Gregory," said he; "next time you come, I'll throw you into the fire to boot."

But Gregory, highly delighted, feasted his eyes on the youth's face all the time he was reading the letter.

As if his soul had changed within him, as if he had passed from the troubles of this world to the joys of Paradise, every feature of the youth's face became smiling and joyful. The farther he read the brighter grew his eyes; and when he came to the last word he pressed the leaf to his heart with an expression of the keenest rapture, and held it there a long time, closing his eyes as if in a happy dream, as if he had shut them to see no other object when he conjured up her image before his mind.

Master Panajot was alarmed, fancying some mischief had happened to the invalid, and turned upon Gregory with gnashing teeth:

"What infernal document have you brought along with you, Gregory?"

Feriz meanwhile smilingly nodded his head as if he would thank some invisible shape, and whispered softly:

"So it shall be, so it shall be."

"I'm afraid you feel bad, my master," said the doctor.

Feriz looked up, and his face had grown quite round.

"I?—I feel very well. Take your drugs from my table, and bring me wine and costly meats dear to the eyes and mouth. I would rejoice my soul and my palate. Call hither musicians, and open wide my gate. Pile flowers upon my windows, I would be drunk with the fragrance of the flowers that the breeze brings to me."

Panajot fancied that the invalid had gone out of his mind, and yet full of the joy of life he rose from his couch, laid aside his warm woollen garment, put on instead a light silk robe, wound round his head a turban of the finest linen instead of the warm shaggy shawl, and he who had hitherto been brooding and fretting apathetically, had suddenly become as light as a bird, paced the room with rapid steps, with proudly erected face, from which the livid yellow of sickness had suddenly disappeared, and his eyes sparkled like fire.

Panajot could not account for the change, and really believed that the patient had fallen into some dangerous paroxysm and in this persuasion bawled for all the members of the negro family. The old Egyptian door-keeper, a young Nubian huntsman, a Chinese cook, trampling upon each other in their haste, all rushed into the room at his cry.

Feriz Beg, with boyish mirth, stopped them all before the doctor could say a word.

"Thou, Ali," he said to the old door-keeper, "go to the mosque and cast this silver among the poor that they may give thanks to Allah for my recovery. And thou, O cook! prepare a dinner for twelve persons, looking to it that there is wine and flowers and music; and thou, my huntsman, bring forth the fieriest steed and put upon him the most costly wrappings; and ye others, take this worthy doctor and lock him up among his drugs that he may not get away, and call hither all my friends and acquaintances, and tell them we will celebrate the festival of my recovery."

The servants with shouts of joy fulfilled the commands of Feriz. First of all they shoved good Panajot into his drug-brewing kitchen, and then they dispersed to do their master's bidding.

Feriz then took the hand of the Szekler who had brought the message and shook it violently, saying to him in a loud firm voice:

"Thou must remain with me till I have accomplished thy mistress's commands. For she has laid a command upon me which I must needs obey."

Meanwhile, the ostlers had brought forward the good charger. It was a fiery white Arab, ten times as restless as usual because of its long rest; not an instant were its feet still. Two men caught it by the head and were scarce able to hold it, its pink, wide open nostrils blew forth jets of steam, and through its smooth white mane could be seen the ruddy hue of the full blood.

The unfortunate Panajot poked his head through the round window of his laboratory, and from thence regarded with stupefaction his whilom invalid bestride the back of the wild charger, that same invalid who, if anyone knocked at his door an hour or two before, complained that his head was bursting.

The charger pranced and caracolled and the doctor with tears in his eyes besought the bystanders if they had any sense of feeling at all not to let the Beg ride on such a winged griffin. They only laughed at him. Feriz flung himself into the saddle as lightly as a grasshopper. The two stablemen let go the reins, the steed rose up erect on his hind legs and bucked along as a biped for several yards. Then the Beg struck the sharp stirrups into its flank, and the steed, snorting loudly, bowed its head over its fore-quarters and galloped off like lightning.

The doctor followed him with a lachrymose eye, every moment expecting that Feriz would fall dead from his horse; but he sat in the saddle as if grown to it, as he had always been wont to do. When the road meandered off towards the fortress he turned into it and disappeared from the astonished gaze of those who were looking after him.

A few moments later the horseman was in the courtyard of the fortress. He demanded an interview with the general, and was told that he was receiving nobody. He applied therefore to his favourite eunuch instead. He arrived at the fortress with a full purse, he quitted it with an empty one; but he now knew everything he wanted to know, viz., that Hassan had entrusted the captive Princess to Azrael; that the two girls were tied by the hands to one chain; that he greatly feared someone would come and filch the Princess from him; that he got up ten times every night to see whether anyone had stolen into the palace; and that since Mariska had been placed in his hands he had drunk no wine and smoked no opium, and would eat of no dish save from the hands of his favourite damsel.

Feriz Beg knew quite enough. Again he mounted his horse and galloped back to his kiosk, taking the neighbouring mosque on his way, on reaching which he called from his horse to the old dervish, who immediately appeared in answer to his summons.

"Tell her who was wont to visit me in thy stead that I want to see and speak to her early to-morrow morning."

And with that he threw some gold ducats to the dervish and galloped off.

The dervish looked after him in astonishment, and picking up the ducats, instantly toddled off to the fortress, prowled about the gate all night, met Hajat at early dawn, and gave her the message for Azrael.

This was the joyful tidings which the odalisk had received in response to her first prayer, and which had made her so happy.

Next morning she ordered her servants to admit none but the old dervish, and to close every door as soon as he had entered.

Shortly afterwards, Azrael with her retinue of servants arrived at the mosque, and a few moments after she had disappeared behind the trellised railings the form of the old dervish appeared in the street, hobbling along with his crutch till he reached the kiosk. Feriz Beg perceived him through the window, and sent everyone from the room that he might remain alone with him.

The dervish entered, closed the door behind him, let down the tapestries, took off his false beard and false raiment, and there before Feriz—tremulous, blushing, and shamefaced—stood the odalisk.

"Thou hast sent for me," she stammered softly, "and behold—here I am!"

"I would beg something of thee," said Feriz, half leaning on his elbow.

"Demand my life!" cried the odalisk impetuously, "and I will lay it at thy feet!" and at these words she flung herself at the foot of the divan on which the youth was sitting.

"I ask thee for nothing less than thy life. Once thou saidst that thou didst love me. Is that true now also?"

"Is it not possible to love thee, and yet live?"

"Say then that I might love thee if I knew thee better. Good! I wish to know thee."

The damsel regarded the youth tremblingly, waiting to hear what he would say to her.

The youth rose and said in a solemn, lofty voice:

"In my eyes not the roses of the cheeks, or the fire of the eyes, or bodily charms make a woman beautiful, but the beauty of the soul, for I recognise a soul in woman, and she is no mere plaything for the pastime of men. What enchants me is noble feeling, self-sacrifice, loyalty, resignation. Canst thou die for him whom thou lovest?"

"It would be rapture to me."

"Canst thou die for her whom thou hatest in order to prove how thou dost love?"

"I do not understand," said Azrael hesitating.

"Thou wilt understand immediately. There is a captive woman in Hassan's castle who is entrusted to thy charge. This captive woman must be liberated. Wilt thou liberate her?"

At these words Azrael's heart began to throb feverishly. All the blood vanished from her face. She looked at the youth in despair, and said with a gasp:

"Dost thou love this woman?"

"Suppose that I love her and thou dost free her all the same."

The woman collapsed at the feet of Feriz Beg, and embracing his knees, said, sobbing loudly:

"Oh, say that thou dost not love her, say that thou dost not know her, and I will release her—I will release her for thee at the risk of my own life."

The reply of Feriz was unmercifully cold.

"Believe that I love her, and in that belief sacrifice thyself for her. This night I will wait for her wherever thou desirest, and will take her away if thou wilt fetch her. It was thy desire to know me, and I would know thee also. Thou art free to come or go as thou choosest."

The odalisk hid her tearful face in the carpets on the floor, and writhed convulsively to the feet of Feriz, moaning piteously.

"Oh, Feriz, thou art merciless to me."

"Thou wouldst not be the first who had sacrificed her life for love."

"But none so painfully as I."

"And art thou not proud to do so, then?"

At these words the woman raised a pale face, her large eyes had a moonlight gleam like the eyes of a sleep-walker. She seized the hand of Feriz in order to help herself to rise.

"Yes, I am proud to die for thee. I will show that here—within me—there is a heart which can feel nobly—which can break for that which it loves, for that which kills it—that pride shall be mine. I will do it."

And then, as if she wished to clear away the gathering clouds from her thoughts, she passed her hand across her forehead and continued in a lower, softer voice:

"This night, when the muezzin calls the hour of midnight, be in front of the fortress-garden on thy fleetest horse. Thou wilt not have to wait long; there is a tiny door there which conceals a hidden staircase which leads from the fortress to the trenches. I will come thither and bring her with me."

Feriz involuntarily pressed the hand of the girl kneeling before him, and felt a burning pressure in his hand, and when he looked at the young face before him he saw the smile of a sublime rapture break forth upon her radiantly joyful features.

Azrael parted from Feriz an altogether transformed being, another heart was throbbing in her breast, another blood was flowing to her heart, earth and heaven had a different colour to her eyes. She believed that the youth would love her if she died for him, and that thought made her happy.

But Feriz summoned Gregory Biró, and having recompensed him, sent him back to his mistress with the message:

"Thy wish hath been accomplished."

So sure was he that Azrael would keep her word—if only she were alive to do so.

Hassan Pasha waited and waited for Azrael. If the odalisk was not with him he felt as helpless as a child who has strayed away from its nurse. In the days immediately following the lost battle, the shame attaching to him and his agonized fear for his life had quite confused his mind; and the drugs employed at that time, combined with restless nights, the prayers of the dervishes, the joys of the harem and opium, had completed the ruin of his nervous system. If he were left alone for an hour he immediately fainted, and when he awoke it was in panic terror—he gazed around him like one in the grip of a hideous nightmare. For some days he would leave off his opium, but as is generally the case when one too suddenly abandons one's favourite drug, the whole organism threatened to collapse, and the renunciation of the opium did even more mischief than its enjoyment.

When Azrael rejoined him he was asleep, the chain by which he held the Princess had fallen from his hand and when he awoke there was a good opportunity of persuading him that Mariska had escaped from him while he slept.

Hassan looked long and blankly at her, it seemed as if he would need some time wherein to rally his scattered senses sufficiently to recognise anyone. But Azrael was able to exercise a strange magnetic influence over him, and he would awake from the deepest sleep whenever she approached him.

Azrael sat down beside the couch and embraced the Vizier, while Mariska, with tender bashfulness, turned her head away from them; and Hassan, observing it, drew Azrael's head to his lips and whispered in her ear:

"I have had evil dreams again. Hamaliel, the angel of dreams, appeared before me, and gave me to understand that if I did not kill this woman, he would kill me. My life is poisoned because she is here. My mind is not in proper order. I often forget who I am. I fancy I am living at Stambul, and looking out of the window am amazed that I do not see the Bosphorus. This woman must die. This will cure me. I will kill her this very day."

Mariska did not hear these words, all her attention was fixed upon the babbling of her child; and Azrael, with an enchanting smile, flung herself on the breast of the Vizier, embracing his waggling head and covering his face with kisses, and the smile of her large dark eyes illuminated his gloomy soul.

Poor Hassan! He fancies that that enchanting smile, that embrace, those kisses are meant for him, but the shape of a handsome youth hovers before the mind of the odalisk, and that is why she kisses Hassan so tenderly, embraces him so ardently, and smiles so enchantingly. She fancies 'tis her ideal whom she sees and embraces.

Ah, the extravagances of love!

CHAPTER XVIII.
SPORT WITH A BLIND MAN.

But these Azrael dressed up one by one to look like splendid magnates, village magistrates, and soldiers; put sealed letters, purses, and banners in their hands, and placing Hassan in the reception-room on a lofty divan, sat down with the Princess on stools at his feet, and ordered the door-keepers to admit the disguised slaves one by one.

The mockery was flagrant, but was there among them all any who dared to enlighten Hassan? Who would undertake to undeceive him when a mere nod from Azrael might annihilate before the Vizier could realise that they were making sport of him? It was a fleet-winged demon fooling a sluggish mammoth with strength enough to crush her but with no wings to enable it to get at her, and the rabble always takes the part of the mocker, not of the mocked, especially if the former be lucky and the latter unlucky.

The loutish slaves came one by one into the room, and Hassan turned his face towards them, remaining in that position while Azrael told him who they were and what they wanted.

"This is Ferhad Aga," said the odalisk, pointing at a stable-man, "who, hearing of thy martial prowess in all four corners of the world has come hither begging thee with veiled countenance to include him among thy armour-bearers."

Hassan most graciously extended his hand to the stable-man and granted him his petition.

Azrael next presented to Hassan a cook from a foreign court, who, dressed in a large round mantle of cloth of silver, might very well have passed for a burgomaster of Debreczen, and whose shoulders bent beneath the weight of two sacks of gold and silver from Hassan's own treasury.

"This is the magistrate of the city of Debreczen," said the odalisk, "who hath brought thee a little gift in the name of the municipality, with the petition that when thou dost become the Pasha of Transylvania thou wilt not forget them."

Hassan smiled at the word money, had the sacks placed before him, thrust his arms into them up to his very wrists with great satisfaction, had their contents emptied at his feet, and dismissed the envoy with a hearty pressure of the hand.

And now followed a negro, who brought some recaptured Turkish banners from the bed of a river which did not exist, in which the Turks had drowned the whole army of Montecuculi.

Hassan was now in such a weak state of mind that he no longer recognised his own people in their unwonted garments, and the more extraordinary the things reported to him the more readily he believed them.

And so Azrael kept on exhibiting to him envoys, couriers, and captains till, at last, it came to the turn of the envoy of the Grand Vizier, whose part the odalisk had entrusted to a clever eunuch who had been instructed to present to Hassan a sealed firman, which Azrael was to read because Hassan could not see the letters. It was to the effect that Hassan was to endeavour to preserve the life of the captive Princess, as the Grand Vizier himself intended in a few days to take her over alive.

When thus it seemed good to Azrael that the most striking scene of the whole game should begin she exclaimed in a loud voice to the door-keepers:

"Admit the ambassador of the Grand Vizier with the message from the Sublime Padishah!"

The guards drew back the curtains and in came—Olaj Beg!

"Truly I must needs admit," said he turning towards the odalisk, who stood there petrified with fear and amazement, "truly I must admit that thou art blessed with the faculty of seeing through walls and reading fast-closed letters, for thou hast announced me before I appeared officially and thou hast seen the firman hidden in my bosom before I have had time to produce it."

Azrael arose. She felt her blood throbbing in her brain for terror. At that moment she had that keen sensation of danger when every atom of the body—heart, brain, hands, and the smallest nerve—sees, hears, and thinks.

"Thou hast brought the firman of the Sultan?" she inquired of Olaj Beg with wrapt attention.

"Thou knowest also what is written in it, O enchantress!" said Olaj, in a tone of homage, "therefore ask not."

There was something in the yellow face of Olaj Beg which made him most formidable, most menacing at the very time when he seemed to be utterly abject in his humility.

"What doth the Sublime Sultan command?" inquired Hassan, gazing abstractedly in front of him.

"That thou prepare a scaffold in the courtyard of thy palace by to-morrow morning."

"For whom?" inquired Hassan in alarm. It was curious that it was he who trembled at this word, and not the Princess.

"That is the secret of to-morrow. Thou shalt break open and read this firman to-morrow, in it thou wilt find who is to die to-morrow."

At these words Olaj Beg looked at the faces of all who were present, as if he would read their innermost thoughts, but in vain. He recognised none of those on whom his eyes fell. Although many of them seemed to be great men he could not remember meeting any of them in the Empire of the Grand Turk; and the face of Azrael was as cold and motionless as marble, he could read nought from that.

But Azrael had already read the sealed firman through the eyes of Olaj Beg.

She had read it, and it said that if by to-morrow morning the Princess was not set free then the scaffold would be erected for her, but if she had escaped, then it would be raised for Hassan and for whomsoever had set her free.

"I must hasten to set her free," she thought.

CHAPTER XIX.
THE NIGHT BEFORE DEATH.

The hands of Hassan Pasha trembled unusually when that evening he locked the golden padlocks on the hands of Azrael and Mariska. A hundred times he tapped the key hidden in his girdle to convince himself that it had not fallen out.

Scarcely had he left the two women alone than he came back to them again to ascertain whether he had really locked their hands together, for he had forgotten all about it by the time he had reached the door.

Then he came back a second time, looked all round the room, tapped the walls repeatedly, for he was afraid or had dreamt that there was another door somewhere which led out of the room. However, he convinced himself at last that there was not. Then he went to the window and looked out. There was a fall of fifteen feet to the bastions, and the ditch below was planted with sharp stakes; all round the room there was nothing whatever which could serve as a rope. The curtains were all of down and feathers; the dresses were of the lightest transparent material; the shawls which formed Azrael's turban and were twisted round her body were the finest conceivable; and the garments the odalisk actually wore were of silk, and so light that they stuck to the skin everywhere.

Azrael saw through the mind of the Vizier.

"Why dost though look at me?" she exclaimed aloud so that he trembled all over; "thou dost suspect me. If thou fearest this woman whom thou hast confided to me, take and guard her thyself."

"Azrael," said Hassan meekly, "be not angry with me, at least not now."

"Thou hast never suspected me, then?"

"Have I not always loved thee? If even thou didst want my life would I not trust it with thee?"

"Then wander not about the room so. Go and rest!"

"Rest to-night? The Messenger of Death stands before the door."

"What care I about the Messenger of Death? I know when I am going to die! And till then I will not lower my eyes before Death."

"And when will Hassan die?" asked the Vizier, seizing the hand of his favourite and watching eagerly for her answer with parted lips.

"Thou wilt survive me a day and no longer," said Azrael. There was a tremulousness in the intonation of her voice. She felt that what she said was true.

The tears trickled from Hassan's face, and he covered it with his hands.

Then the imbecile old man kissed the robe of the odalisk again and again, and folding her in his ardent embrace, actually sobbed over her. And he kept on babbling:

"Thou wilt die before me?"

"So it is written in the book of the Future," said Azrael proudly; "so long as thou seest me alive, have no fear of Death! But the sound of the horn of the Angel of Death which summons me away will also be a signal for thee to make ready."

Hassan, having dried his tears, quitted Azrael's room, and on reaching his own, sank down upon a divan, and was immediately overcome by sleep.

When he had gone, Mariska knelt down before the bed on which her little child was softly sleeping, and drawing a little ivory cross from her breast, began to pray.

Azrael touched her hand.

"Pray not now, thou wilt have time to pray later."

Mariska looked at her in wonder.

"I? Are not the hours of my life numbered?"

"No. Listen to my words and act accordingly. I will free thee."

The Princess was astonished, she fancied she was dreaming.

The odalisk now drew a small fine steel file from her girdle, and, seizing the Princess's hand, began to file the chain from off it.

After the first few rubs the sharp file bit deeply into the silver circlet, but suddenly it stopped, and, press it as hard as she would, it would bite the chain no more.

"What is this? it won't go on. What is the chain made of? Even if it were of steel, another steel would file it."

Azrael hastily filed right round the whole of the link which Hassan's smith had thought good to form of silver only on the outside, thinking that the fraud would never be discovered, and behold, the hard impervious substance which resisted the file was nothing but—glass.

"Ah!" said Azrael, "all the better for us, the work will be quicker;" and seizing an iron candlestick, she broke in pieces with a single blow the whole of the glass chain which was only covered by a light varnish of silver, only the two locked golden manacles remained in their hands.

"We shall be ready all the sooner," she whispered to Mariska, "now we must make haste and get you off."

But Mariska still stood before her like one who knows not what is befalling her.

"Hast thou thought how we are to escape?" she inquired of Azrael. "The guards of Hassan Pasha stand at every door, and all the doors have been locked by his own hand. In front of the gates of the fortress the sentinels have been doubled. I heard what commands he gave."

"I have nought to do with doors or guards; we are going to escape through the window."

Mariska looked at Azrael incredulously; she fancied she had gone mad. She could see nothing in the room by which they could descend from the window, and below stood the thickly planted sharp stakes.

"Help me to let down this gobæa ladder!" said Azrael, and quick as a squirrel herself, she leaped on the edge of the great porcelain tub, and thrust aside the vigorous shoots of the plant from its natural ladder within, which grew right up to the roof and thence descended again to its own roots.

Mariska began to see that her companion knew what she was about. She hastened to give her assistance, lowered the pliable trunk, and, looking round to see if anyone was watching, bent the branches towards the window.

But still it was too short. The longest creepers only reached to the edges of the palisade, and one could not count upon the green sprouts at the end of the creepers. Even if the ladder which formed the flower were attached to it, it would still not reach to the bottom of the trench.

Azrael looked around the room to see if she could find anything. Suddenly she had hit upon it.

"Give me those scissors," she said to Mariska, and when the latter had returned to her, the odalisk had already let down her flowing tresses. Four long locks as black as night, reaching below her knee, the crown of a woman's beauty which make men rejoice in her, were twining there on the floor.

"Give me the scissors!" she said to Mariska.

"Wouldst thou cut off thy hair?" asked the Princess, holding back.

"Yes, yes, what does it matter? It is wanted for the rope, and it will be quite strong enough."

"Rather cut off mine!" said Mariska. With noble emulation she took from her head her small pearl haube, and loosened her own tresses, which, if not so long and so full of colour, at least rivalled those of her comrade in quantity.

"Good; the two together will make the rope stronger," said Azrael; and with that the two ladies began clipping off their luxurious locks one by one with the little scissors. One marvellously beautiful tress after another flowed from the head of the odalisk. When the last had fallen, a tear-drop also followed it.

Then she picked up the splendid tresses and began plaiting them together into strong knots.

"Wouldst thou ever have thought," said Azrael, "that the locks of thy hair would be so intermingled?"

Mariska gratefully pressed the hand of the odalisk.

"How can I ever thank you for your goodness?"

"Think not of it. Fate orders it so—and someone else," she muttered softly.

And now the attached ladder was long enough to reach the bottom of the palisades. Then they pitched down all the pillows and cushions of the divans till they covered the sharp stakes, so that their points might not hurt the fugitives. Moreover, Azrael tied the tough shoots of the gobæa to the cross piece of the window with the wraps of her turban and girdle.