"Mustapha," said the pacha, taking his pipe out of his mouth, after an
hour's smoking in silence, "I have been thinking it very odd that our
Holy Prophet (blessed be his name!) should have given himself so much
trouble about such a son of Shitan as that renegade rascal, Huckaback,
whose religion is only in his turban. By the sword of the Prophet, is
it not strange that he should send him to command my fleet!"
"It was the will of your sublime highness," replied Mustapha, "that he
should command your fleet."
"Mashallah! Was it not the will of the Prophet?"
Mustapha smoked his pipe, and made no reply.
"He was a great story-teller," observed the pacha, after another pause.
"He was," drily replied Mustapha. "No kessehgou of our true believers
could equal him; but that is now over, and the dog of an Isauri must
prove himself a Rustam in the service of your sublime highness. Aware
that your highness would require amusement, and that it was the duty of
your slave, who shines but by the light of your countenance, to procure
it, I have since yesterday, when the sun went down, despairing to find
his glory eclipsed by that of your sublime highness, ordered most
diligent search to be made through the whole of the world, and have
discovered, that in the caravan now halted on the outskirts of the town,
there was a famous kessehgou proceeding to Mecca to pay his homage to
the shrine of our Prophet: and I have despatched trusty messengers to
bring him into the presence of the Min Bashi, to whom your slave, and
the thousands whom he rules, are but as dust:" and Mustapha bowed low.
"Aferin, excellent:" exclaimed the pacha; "and when will he be here?"
"Before the tube now honoured by kissing the lips of your highness shall
have poured out in ecstasy the incense of another bowl of the fragrant
weed, the slippers of the kessehgou will be left at the threshold of the
palace. Be chesm, on my eyes be it."
"'Tis well, Mustapha. Slave," continued the pacha, addressing the Greek
who was in attendance, with his arms folded and his eyes cast down to
the ground; "coffee and the strong water of the Giaour."
The pacha's pipe was refilled, the coffee was poured down their
respective throats, and the forbidden spirits quaffed with double
delight, arising from the very circumstance that they were forbidden.
"Surely there must be some mistake, Mustapha. Does not the Koran say,
that all that is good is intended for true believers; and is not this
good? How then can it be forbidden? Could it be intended for the
Giaours? May they, and their fathers' graves, be eternally defiled!"
"Amen!" replied Mustapha, laying down the cup, and drawing a deep sigh.
Mustapha was correct in his calculations. Before the pacha had finished
his pipe, the arrival of the story-teller was announced: and after
waiting a few minutes from decorum, which seemed to the impatient pacha
to be eternal, Mustapha clapped his hands, and the man was ushered in.
"Kosh amedid! you are welcome," said the pacha, as the kessehgou entered
the divan: he was a slight, elegantly moulded person, of about thirty
years of age.
"I am here in obedience to the will of the pacha," replied the man in a
most musical voice, as he salaamed low. "What does his highness require
of his slave Menouni?"
"His highness requires a proof of thy talent, and an opportunity to
extend his bounty."
"I am less than dust, and am ready to cover my head with ashes, not to
feel my soul in the seventh heaven at the condescension of his highness;
yet would I fain do his bidding and depart, for a vow to the Prophet is
sacred, and it is written in the Koran--"
"Never mind the Koran just now, good Menouni; we ask of thee a proof of
thy art. Tell me a story."
"Most proud shall I be of the honour. Will not my face be whitened to
all eternity? Shall your slave relate the loves of Leilah and Majnoun?"
"No, no," replied the pacha; "something that will interest me."
"Then will I narrate the history of the Scarred Lover."
"That sounds well, Mustapha," observed the pacha.
"Who can foresee so well as your sublime highness?" replied Mustapha.
"Menouni, it is the pleasure of the pacha that you proceed."
"Your slave obeys. Your sublime perspicuity is but too well acquainted
with geography--?"
"Not that I know of. Hath he ever left his slippers at our threshold,
Mustapha?"
"I suspect," replied Mustapha, "that he goes all over the world, and
therefore he must have been here. Proceed, Menouni, and ask not such
questions. By virtue of his office, his sublime highness knows
everything."
"True," said the pacha, shaking his beard with great dignity and
satisfaction.
"I did but presume to put the question," replied Menouni, whose voice
was soft and silvery as a flute on a summer's silent eve, "as, to
perfectly understand the part of the world from which my tale has been
transmitted, I thought that a knowledge of that science was required:
but I have eaten dirt, and am covered with shame at my indiscretion,
which would not have occurred, had it not been that the sublime sultan,
when I last had the honour to narrate the story, was pleased to
interrupt me, from his not being quite convinced that the parts of the
world were known to him. But I will now proceed with my tale, which
shall go forward with the majestic pace of the camel, proud in his
pilgrimage over the desert, towards the shrine of our Holy Prophet."