"Mustapha," observed the pacha, taking his pipe out of his mouth, "what
makes the poets talk so much about the Book of Fate?"
"The Book of Fate, your highness, is where is written our _Talleh_, or
destiny. Can I say more?"
"Allah acbar! God is great! and it is well said. But why a book, when
nobody can read it?"
"These are great words, and spiced with wisdom. O pacha! doth not Hafiz
say, `Every moment you enjoy, count it gain?' Who can say what will be
the event of any thing?"
"Wallab thaib! well said, by Allah! Then why a book, if the book is
sealed?"
"Yet there are wise men who can read our kismet, and foretell."
"Yes, very true; but I have observed that it is not until after an event
has happened, that they tell you of it. What are these astrologers?
_Bosh_--nothing--I have said." And the pacha remained some time smoking
his pipe in silence.
"May it please your highness," observed Mustapha, "I have outside a
wretch who is anxious to crawl into your presence. He comes from the
far-distant land of Kathay--an unbeliever, with two tails."
"Two tails! was he a pacha in his own country?"
"A pacha! Staffir Allah!--God forgive me! A dog--a most miserable
dog--on my eyes be it; but still he hath two tails."
"Let the dog with two tails be admitted," replied the pacha. "We have
said it."
A yellow-skinned, meagre, and wrinkled old Chinaman was brought in
between two of the guards. His eyes were very small and bleared, his
cheek-bones prominent; all that could be discovered of his nose were two
expanded nostrils at its base; his mouth of an enormous width, with
teeth as black as ink. As soon as the guards stopped, he slipped down
from between them on his knees, and throwing forward his body,
_kow-tow-ed_ with his head in the dust nine times, and then remained
with his face down on the floor.
"Let the dog with two tails rise," said the pacha.
This order not being immediately obeyed by the servile Chinaman, each of
the two guards who stood by him seized one of the plaited tails of hair,
which was nearly an ell in length, and pulled up his head from the
floor. The Chinaman then remained cross-legged, with his eyes humbly
fixed upon the ground.
"Who art thou, dog?" said the pacha, pleased with the man's humility.
"I am of Kathay, and your vilest slave," replied the man, in good
Turkish. "In my own country I was a poet. Destiny hath brought me
here, and I now work in the gardens of the palace."
"If you are a poet you can tell me many a story."
"Your slave has told thousands in his lifetime, such hath been my fate."
"Talking about fate," said Mustapha, "can you tell his highness a story,
in which destiny has been foretold and hath been accomplished? if so,
begin."
"There is a story of my own country, O vizier! in which destiny was
foretold, and was most unhappily accomplished."
"You may proceed," said Mustapha, at a sign from the pacha.
The Chinaman thrust his hand into the breast of his blue cotton shirt,
and pulled out a sort of instrument made from the shell of a tortoise,
with three or four strings stretched across, and in a low monotonous
tone, something between a chant and a whine, not altogether unmusical,
he commenced his story. But first he struck his instrument and ran over
a short prelude, which may be imagined by a series of false notes,
running as follows:--
Ti-tum, ti-tum, tilly-lilly, tilly-lilly, ti-tum, ti-tum, tilly-lilly,
tilly-lilly, ti-tum, ti.
As he proceeded in his story, whenever he was out of breath, he stopped,
and struck a few notes of his barbarous music.