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MAURUS JOKAI
THE LION OF JANINA
OR
THE LAST DAYS OF THE JANISSARIES
A Turkish Novel
TRANSLATED BY
R. NISBET BAIN
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
1898
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
THE GREEN BOOK; or, Freedom Under the Snow. A Novel.
Translated by Mrs. Waugh. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental,
$1 50. (In "The Odd Number Series.")
BLACK DIAMONDS. A Novel. Translated by Frances A.
Gerard. With a Photogravure Portrait of the Author.
16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 50. (In "The Odd Number
Series.")
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
NEW YORK AND LONDON.
Copyright, 1897, by Harper & Brothers.
All rights reserved.
THE LION OF JANINA
PREFACE
The first edition of _Janicsárok végnapjai_ appeared forty-five years
ago. It was immediately preceded by the great historical romance,
_Erdely aranykora_ (_The Golden Age of Transylvania_), and the still
more famous novel of manners, _Egy Magyar Nábob_ (_A Hungarian
Nabob_), which Hungarians regard as, indisputably, Jókai's
masterpiece, while only a few months separate it from _Kárpáthy
Zoltán_ (_Sultan Karpathy_), the brilliant sequel to the _Nabob_. Thus
it belongs to the author's best literary period.
It is also one of the most striking specimens of that peculiar group
of Turkish stories, such as _Törökvilag Magyarorszagon_ (_Turkey in
Hungary_) and _Török mozgolmak_ (_Turkish Incursions_), _A kétszarvú
ember_ (_The Man with the Antlers_), and the extremely popular _Fehér
rózsa_ (_White Rose_), which form a genre apart of Jókai's own
creation, in which his exuberant imagination revels in the rich colors
of the gorgeous East, as in its proper element, while his ever alert
humor makes the most of the sharp and strange contrasts of Oriental
life and society. The hero of the strange and terrible drama, or,
rather, series of dramas, unfolded with such spirit, skill, and
vividness in _Janicsárok végnapjai_, is Ali Pasha of Janina,
certainly one of the most brilliant, picturesque, and, it must be
added, capable ruffians that even Turkish history can produce.
Manifold and monstrous as were Ali's crimes, his astonishing ability
and splendid courage lend a sort of savage sublimity even to his
blood-stained career, and, indeed, the dogged valor with which the
octogenarian warrior defended himself at the last in his stronghold
against the whole might of the Ottoman Empire is almost without a
parallel in history.
With such a hero, it is evident that the book must abound in stirring
and even tremendous scenes; but, though primarily a novel of incident,
it contains not a few fine studies of Oriental character, both Turkish
and Greek, by an absolutely impartial observer, who can detect the
worth of the Osmanli in the midst of his apathy and brutality, and
who, although sympathetically inclined towards the Hellenes, is by no
means blind to their craft and double-dealing, happily satirized in
the comic character of Leonidas Argyrocantharides.
Finally, I have taken the liberty to alter the title of the story.
_Janicsárok végnapjai_ (_The Last Days of the Janissaries_) is too
glaringly inapt to pass muster, inasmuch as the rebellion and
annihilation of that dangerous corps is a mere inessential episode at
the end of the story. I have, therefore, given the place of honor on
the title-page to Ali Pasha--the Lion of Janina.
I have added a glossary of the Turkish words used by the author in
these pages.
R. NISBET BAIN.
Contents
Chapter Page
I. THE CAVERNS OF SELEUCIA 1
II. EMINAH 19
III. A TURKISH PARADISE 45
IV. GASKHO BEY 62
V. A MAN IN THE MIDST OF DANGERS 72
VI. THE LION IN THE FOX'S SKIN 78
VII. THE ALBANIAN FAMILY 105
VIII. THE PEN OF MAHMOUD 110
IX. THE CIRCASSIAN AND HIS FAMILY 129
X. THE AVENGER 160
XI. THE FLOWERS OF THE GARDEN OF BEGTASH 187
XII. THE SHIPWRECK OF LEONIDAS 198
XIII. A BALL IN THE SERAGLIO 213
XIV. KURSHID PASHA 238
XV. CARETTO 244
XVI. EMINAH 252
XVII. THE SILVER PEDESTAL IN FRONT OF THE SERAGLIO 262
XVIII. THE BROKEN SWORDS 275
GLOSSARY OF TURKISH WORDS 293
The Lion of Janina
CHAPTER I
THE CAVERNS OF SELEUCIA
A savage, barren, inhospitable region lies before us, the cavernous
valley of Seleucia--a veritable home for an anchorite, for there is
nothing therein to remind one of the living world; the whole district
resembles a vast ruined tomb, with its base overgrown by green weeds.
Here is everything which begets gloom--the blackest religious
fanaticism, the darkest monstrosities of superstition--while an
eternal malediction seems to brood like a heavy mist over this region,
created surely by God's left hand, scattering abroad gigantic rocky
fragments, smiting the earth with unfruitfulness, and making it
uninhabitable by the children of men.
Man rarely visits these parts. And, indeed, why should he come, or
what should he seek there? There is absolutely nothing in the whole
region that is dear to the heart of man. Even the wild beast makes no
abiding lair for himself in that valley. Only now and then, in the
burning days of summer, a lion of the wilderness, flying from before
the sultry heat, may, perchance, come there to devour his captured
prey, and then, when he is well gorged, pursue his way, wrangling as
he goes with the echo of his own roar.
Solitary travellers of an enterprising turn of mind do occasionally
visit this dreary wilderness; but so crushing an impression does it
make on all who have the courage to gaze upon it, that they scarce
wait to explore the historic ground, but hasten from it as fast as
their legs can carry them.
What is there to see there, after all? A battered-down wall, as to
which none can say who built it, or why it was built, or who destroyed
it. A tall stone column, the column of the worthy Simon Stylites, who
piled it up, stone upon stone, year after year, with his own hands,
being wont to sit there for days together with arms extended in the
shape of a cross, bowing himself thousands and thousands of times a
day till his head touched his feet. The northern and southern sides of
the valley are cut off from the rest of the world by gigantic masses
of rocks as steep and solid as the bastions of a fortress; only
towards their summit, at an elevation of some three to four hundred
yards, is a little strip of green vegetation visible.
Darkly visible at intervals in this long and steep rocky wall are the
mouths of a series of caverns, of various sizes, all close together.
It looks as if some monstrous antediluvian race had cut two or three
stories of doors and windows into the living rock, in order to make
themselves palaces to dwell in.
The walls of these caverns are so rugged, their bases are so
irregular, that it is scarcely conceivable that they could be the
work of human hands, unless, indeed, the arched concavities of the
chasms and the regular consecutiveness of the series may be assumed to
bear witness to the wonder-working power of finite forces.
Three of the entrances to these caverns have all the loftiness of
triumphal arches; nay, one of them, carved in the base of the rock, is
so exceptionally vast that it rather resembles the nave of a huge
church, and is said to penetrate the whole mountain to the sea beyond.
It is said that if any one has the courage to attempt the journey, he
will discover mysterious hieroglyphics carved on the walls. Who could
have been the authors of this unknown runic language? The Chaldeans
perhaps, or the worshippers of Mithra. What hidden secrets, what human
memorials are enshrined in these symbols? That question must remain
forever without an answer.
Most probably this valley was used as a burial-place by some
long-vanished nation, whose tombs have survived them, making the whole
region still more dreadful; the gaping crevices of the rocks seem to
proclaim, as from a hundred open throats, that here an extinct race
has found its last resting-place.
Moreover, the largest cavern of all has the unusual property of
sometimes emitting whistling sounds like interrupted human voices. The
shepherds on the mountain summits listen terror-stricken to this
bellowing of its rocky throat. At first it resembles the buzzing of
imprisoned wasps, but the din gradually gathers force and volume till
it seems as if the demons of the wind had lost their way within the
cavern, and were roaring tumultuously in their endeavors to find an
exit. This noise is generally followed by the blast of the simoon,
which no doubt penetrates into the cavern through a gap on the other
side, and thus gives rise to the mysterious voices of the valley.
But not on these occasions only; at other seasons also the cavern is
wont to speak. It happens now and then that a shepherd, more foolhardy
than his fellows, ventures into the hollow of the cavern to light a
fire, and, full of bravado, provokes the _dzhin_ of the cavern to
appear, till the cavern suddenly re-echoes his voice; but it does not
re-echo the words he utters, but replies in a soft, low accent to the
insolent youth, bidding him withdraw and cease to mock God's
creatures.
On another occasion an adulterous woman and her paramour strolled
towards the spot with the intent of using the deep darkness as the
cloak for their sinful joys; but what terror filled the guilty lovers
when their sweet whispering was interrupted by a voice which was
neither near nor far, and belonged neither to man nor spirit, but
whose cold sigh turned their hot blood into ice as it whispered,
"Allah is everywhere present!"
Once, too, some robbers were lying in wait for their comrades, whom
they intended to murder in that place, when a roaring began in the
cave which seemed to make the very welkin ring, and the murderers
clearly distinguished the terrible words: "The eye of Allah is upon
you, and the flames of Morhut are burning for your souls!" whereupon,
insane with fright, they rushed from the cave.
Every one who lived near the place knew of, and believed in, the
_dzhin_ of the cavern, who, they said, harmed not the good, but
persecuted evil-doers.
But it was not only terror-stricken hearts who knew of the voice of
the invisible _dzhin_--crushed and bleeding hearts likewise repaired
thither. And the invisible _dzhin_ read their secrets; they had no
need to acquaint him with their griefs, and he gave them good counsel,
and, for the most part, sent them away comforted. Doubtless anybody
else might have given them similar counsels; but if the advice had
come from ordinary men, the suppliants would not perhaps have welcomed
it with such enthusiasm, or have turned it to such good account.
And people often came thither to inquire into the future; and the
invisible being, it was found, could distinguish between those who
came to him in real anguish of mind and those whom only curiosity had
attracted thither, or who merely wished to prove him. To the latter he
made no answer, but to the former he often spoke in prophetic
parables, whose deeply figurative meaning was frequently fulfilled
word for word.
The superstitious common folk made a merit of sacrificing to this
unknown being. The dwellers round about made a point of living on good
terms with him, took care not to provoke him with vain words, did not
fly to him at every trifle; nay, on one occasion, the Kadi[1] of
Seleucia even laid by the heels a couple of wanton rascals who were
caught throwing stones into the cavern.
[Footnote 1: For this and all other Turkish words see the glossary at
the end of this book.]
From the mouth of the cave inward extended a sort of staircase
consisting of about forty steps, terminating at a point whither the
light of day scarcely ever reached. Here stood a huge stone, not
unlike a rude altar, in the midst of which was a slight hollow. This
hollow the pious inhabitants of the district used to fill with rice or
millet, and on returning next day they would see that the _dzhin_ had
removed it from thence, and, by way of payment, had left a small
silver coin in this natural basin--a coin belonging to that old silver
money which had been struck in the brilliant days of the Turkish
Empire, and was worth thrice as much as the present coinage. Thus the
_dzhin_ would take nothing gratis, but paid for everything in ready
money.
Those who wished to speak with him had to penetrate into the depths of
the cave where no daylight was visible, for he was only to be found
where the darkness was complete. If any one went with sword or dagger
he got no answer at all. And a visitor standing alone there in the
darkness was as plainly visible to the _dzhin_ as if the glare of
noonday were beating full upon him; not a change of countenance was
hidden from this mysterious being. So they more readily believed that
he who could thus see through the darkness of earth could also see
through the darkness of human hearts and the darkness of the
unrevealed future.
This marvel had now been notorious for fifty years, the ordinary span
of human life, and princes, pashas, generals, wise men, priests,
ulemas, were in the habit of visiting the abode of the _dzhin_, who
seemed to know about everything that was going on in the world above.
To many he prophesied death, and to those who pleased him not he
foretold the Nemesis that was to come upon them as a reward for their
iniquities.
* * * * *
In the year one thousand eight hundred and nineteen, at the season
immediately following the raging of the simoon, it chanced that a
pirate ship sailed into the haven of Suda, whence the magnificent
ruins of the ancient Seleucia are still to be seen. The corsair
carried the French flag, but her crew consisted entirely of Albanians.
The deck was encumbered with wreckage, cast down upon it by the
happily weathered tempest, and this the crew were energetically
engaged in removing; but every one on shore was astounded to see her
there at all, much more in such trim condition, for she had lost
neither mast nor sail. But then, after the manner of corsairs in
general, she was very much better equipped with both masts and sails
than ships of ordinary tonnage are wont to be. In the same hour that
the ship cast anchor the largest of her boats was lowered, and manned
by four and twenty well-armed Trinariots. Every one of these stout
fellows carried orders of merit on his cheek, the scars of many a
battle, which accentuated the savage sternness of their weather-beaten
faces.
A little old man descended after them into the boat; presently his
horse was also let down by means of a crane. This was the officer in
command. He was a middling-sized but very muscular old fellow, already
beyond his seventieth and not very far from his eightieth year; but he
was as vigorous now both in mind and body as he had been when his
beard, which now swept across his breast like the wing of a swan, was
as dark as the raven's plume.
His broad shoulders spoke of extraordinary strength, while the firm
expression of his face, the flashing lustre of his eyes, and his calm
and valiant look, testified to the fact that this strength was
squandered upon no coward soul.
Some stout rowing brought the boat at last near to the shore, but not
all the efforts of the men could bring her to land; the wash of the
sea was so great that the foam-crested waves again and again drove the
boat back from the shore.
At a sign from the old man three of the ship's crew leaped into the
waves in order to drag after them the boat's hawser, but the sea tore
it out of the hands of all three as easily as a wild bull would toss a
pack of children.
Then the old man vaulted upon his steed, kicking the stirrups aside,
and leaped among the churning waves. Twice the horse was jostled back
by the assault of the foaming billows, but at the third attempt the
shore was reached. The people on the shore said it was a miracle; but
he, wasting no words upon any one, directed his way all alone along
the shore of the haven, and leaving behind him the lofty turreted row
of bastions--which crowns the edge of the rocky promontory, encircles
the town, and hangs upon the shoulders of the hill like an ancient and
gigantic necklace--picked his way among the lofty, scattered bowlders,
and, unescorted as he was, quickly disappeared from view amid the
wilderness.
He had scarcely proceeded more than half an hour among the fig and
olive trees which covered the slopes of the hills, and whose scorched
and withered leaves marked the passage of the burning wind, when he
arrived at the place he sought. It was a crazy, tumble-down hut, whose
shapeless mass was so clumsily compounded of wood, stone, and mud,
that a swallow would have been ashamed to own it, let alone a beaver,
whose ordinary habitation is an architectural masterpiece compared
with it. Nature, however, had been gracious to this shanty, and
clothed it with creeping plants, which nearly hid away all the
superfluous cracks and crevices which the architect had left behind
him.
It was here that the new-comer dismounted from his horse, tied it to a
tree, and, proceeding to the latchless door, amused himself by reading
the scrawl which had been written on the outside of it, and was, as
usual, one of those sacred texts which the Turks love to see over
their door-posts: "Accursed be he who disturbs a singing-bird!"
The stranger fell a listening. Surely there was no singing-bird here,
he thought. Then he went on reading what followed: "He who knocks at
the gate of him who prays will knock in vain at the gate of Paradise."
The stranger did not take the trouble to knock; he simply kicked the
door down.
Within was kneeling an anchorite of the order of Erdbuhár on a piece
of matting. He was naked to the girdle, and before him stood a wooden
tub full of fresh water. He was just finishing his ablutions.
He did not seem to observe the violent inroad of the stranger, but
concluded his religious exercises with great fervor. First of all he
washed his hands, reciting thirty times the sacred words, "Blessed be
God, Who hath given to water its purifying power, and hath revealed
the true faith to us!" Next he thrice conveyed water to his mouth in
his right palm, and prayed, "O Lord! O Allah! refresh me with the
water Thou didst give to Thy Prophet Muhammad in Paradise, which is
more fragrant than balm, whiter than milk, and sweeter than honey, and
satisfies eternally those who pine with thirst!" Then, with the palm
of his hand, he cast water upon his nostrils, and exclaimed,
fervently, "O Lord! cause me to smell the perfume of Paradise, which
is sweeter than musk and ambergris, and suffer me not to inhale the
accursed fumes of hell!" Then, filling both palms with water and well
washing his face, he said these words, "Purify my face, O Lord, like
as Thou wilt purify the faces of Thy prophets and servants on the
great Day of Judgment!" But even this did not suffice, for now he put
water in his right palm again, and, letting it run down his elbows, he
sighed, "Lord, suffer me at the last day to hold in my right hand,
which is the hand of Thine elect, the book of my good deeds, and admit
me to Thy Paradise!" With that he dipped his head into the tub of
water, but so as to keep his mouth clear of it, and spake in this
wise, "O Lord, when I appear before Thee, encompass me with Thy
mercies, and crush not my head beneath the fiery wreath of my sins,
but adorn it with the golden crown of my merits!" Then came the turn
of his ears, the worthy man crying the while, with unction, "Grant, O
Lord, that mine ears may hear, for ever and ever, those joyous sounds
which are written in the Kuran!" This accomplished, he sprinkled his
neck and throat, suitably exclaiming, "O Lord, deliver me from those
fetters which will be cast upon the necks of the accursed!" After
which pious ejaculation he sat down on the ground, and, reverently
washing his right foot, exclaimed, "O Lord, suffer not my feet to slip
on the bridge of Alserat which leads across hell to heaven!" Then he
cleansed thoroughly his left foot also, and sighed, "May the Lord
forgive me my trespasses and listen to my supplications!"
And the honest dervish did not utter all these pious ejaculations in a
low mumble, but in an intelligible, exalted voice, as becomes an
orthodox Mussulman, who does not consider it a shameful thing to pray
to God in the presence of men.
After that he took up the tub and, carrying it out, sprinkled the
water it contained over the wild flowers growing there, blessing them
severally and collectively; then he filled it full again with fresh
water from the spring, and bringing it back into the hut and turning
the mat over, placed the tub full of water on it, whereupon the
stranger immediately divested himself of his slippers and upper
kaftan, unwound his turban, removed his red fez from his head, and
proceeded to perform his ablutions also in the self-same manner.
When he had finished he kissed the hand of the dervish, and when the
latter drew from his girdle a long manuscript reaching to the very
ground, and began, from its eighty sections, to laud and magnify the
eighty properties of Allah, the stranger repeated them after him with
great unction, and, at the end of each one of them, intoned with him
twice over the verse, "La illah, il Allah, Muhammad roszul Allah!"--in
the chanting of which he was as practised as any muezzin.
All these pious practices were accomplished with the utmost devotion;
but when the new-comer arose from his place, the expression of
lowliness vanished from his features and he reassumed his former
commanding look, while the dervish now humbly bowed down before him to
the very earth and murmured:
"What are my lord's commands to his servant?"
The stranger let him lie there and slowly raised his sword.
"Art thou," cried he, "that dervish of Erdbuhár[2] to whom I
despatched a fakir of the Nimetullahitas, who dwelleth in Janina?"
[Footnote 2: The orders of Erdbuhár and Nimetullahita are the severest
of all the Turkish religious fraternities: the former fast so
rigorously twice a week that they do not even swallow their saliva;
the latter observe the fast only during their year of probation, after
which they are free to return to the joys of this world.]
"Thy servant is that man."
The stranger thereupon, with his right hand, drew a dagger from his
girdle, and with his left hand a purse.
"Dost thou see this dagger and this purse?" said he. "In the purse are
a thousand sequins; on the blade of this sword is the blood of at
least as many murdered men. I ask thee not--Dost thou recognize me? or
dost thou know my name? Maybe thou dost know--for thou knowest all
things--and, if so, thou dost also know that none hath ever betrayed
me on whom I have not wreaked my vengeance. If, therefore, thou dost
want a reward, listen; but if chastisement, speak!"
The dervish raised his hand to his ear to signify that he would prefer
to listen.
"Arise, then! take my horse's bridle, and lead me to that cavern where
dwelleth the _dzhin_ of prophecy. Dost thou know him?"
"I know him, my master, but go to him I will not, for he is wroth with
me. He loves not the dervishes, because they would always be teaching.
If I go to him he throws stones at me from out of the cavern, or leads
me into deep pitfalls. Therefore, if thou so desire it, I will lead
thee thither; but I would not go with thee if I had as many heads upon
my shoulders for thy sword to sever as there are sequins in that
purse."
"There is no need of that. Thou canst remain outside and hold my
horse."
And with that the herculean old man flung himself haughtily on his
horse, and the dervish, seizing the steed's bridle, began to lead him
along the mountain path among the rugged rocks and bowlders.
The moon was already high in the heavens when they reached the mouth
of the cavern.
Looking back upon the country whence they came, the region seemed more
desolate than ever. In front, the savage, natural ruins; behind, the
black cedar forests, where thick foliage cast night-black shadows even
at noonday; on each side, the endlessly sublime masses of rocks, which
stood out still vaster in the moonlight. The caverns looked still
blacker at night, and the rock and ruins more sterile; but, night and
day alike, the place was deserted.
On reaching the cavern of the _dzhin_, the old man dismounted from his
horse and, bidding the dervish stand and hold it till he returned,
disappeared in the cavern without the slightest hesitation.
He could only grope his way, step by step, through the blinding
darkness; cautiously he advanced, but without fear. He tested the
ground in front of him as he advanced, with one hand over his eyes and
the other on the hilt of his sword. It must, indeed, be a resolutely
wicked spirit that would venture to attack him.
Every now and then a bat sped rapidly past him, close to his ears,
with a sound like a mocking titter; at other times he trod upon some
cold, moving body. But what cared he for these? The deep silence which
encircled him was far more terrible than all the voices of hell; and
not even the darkness terrified him, for his powerful voice now
pierced that subterranean stillness as with a sword.
"I summon thee, thou spirit, whether thou art good or evil, whom Allah
permits to hold discourse with living men--I summon thee to speak with
me!"
"I am even now beside thee," a voice suddenly whispered. It was low
and hollow, just as if the atmosphere of the cavern were speaking.
The stranger made a clutch after the voice, as if his audacious hand
would have seized the spirit; but he found nothing. It was a voice
without a shape.
"Speak to me!" cried the old man, in a voice that never quavered.
"Dost thou know my fate?"
"I know it," answered the invisible voice; "thou art a poor man who
hast lost what thou hadst, and what thou now hast is not thine."
"Thou art a senseless spirit," growled the stranger. "Go back to thy
tomb and slumber; I will inquire nothing more of thee. Thou dost not
even know my present fate; how canst thou know my future? Go back to
thy hole, I say, and sleep in peace."
"I know thee," continued the voice, "and I have spoken the truth. Do
not they call thee Ali Tepelenti?"
The stranger was amazed. "That is indeed my name," he answered.
"Wert thou not a fugitive yesterday, and wilt thou not be dust and
ashes to-morrow?"
"True; but that yesterday was eighty years ago; and who shall say when
to-morrow will be?"
"Thou knowest that here there is neither morning nor evening,"
answered the voice. "To me yesterday was when I last saw the sun, and
to-morrow will be when I see it again. Ali Tepelenti, Lord of Janina,
thou art poorer than the lowliest Mussulman who girds himself with a
girdle of hair, for thou hast lost everything which thou didst account
precious. Thy kinsmen, who were for thy defence, thou hast slain; thy
mother, who loved thee, thou hast strangled; thy right hand has pulled
down the house which thou didst build up; thy glory, in which thou
didst exalt thyself, has become a curse to thee; and thou hast made
bitter haters of those who loved thee best."
"So it is. I know what I have done. I repent me of nothing. The hare
nibbles the flower, the vulture seizes the hare, the hunter slays the
vulture, the lion fells the hunter, the worm devours the lion. All of
us turn to earth. Allah is mighty, and He orders it so. What am I?
Only a bigger worm than the rest. Who shall strive with God? What is
my fate in the future?"
"But yesterday thou wert younger than thy newborn son, to-morrow thou
shalt die older than thy oldest ancestors."
"Speak more plainly. I perceive the meaning of thy words as little as
I perceive thyself."
"'He who sins with the sword shall perish with the sword,' saith
Allah. He who sins with love, shall perish by love. Thou hast two
hands, the right and the left; thou hast two swords, one covered with
gold and one with silver; thou hast three hundred wives in thy harem,
but only one in thy heart; thou hast twelve sons, but only one whom
thou lovest. Look, now! Take good heed of thy life, for thy death
lieth in what is nearest to thee; thine own weapon, thine own child,
thine own property, thine own two hands, shall one day slay thee."
"Mashallah! Death is inevitable. Tell me but one thing. Shall I one
day pass in triumph through the gates of the seraglio at Stambul?"
"Thou shalt. Thou shalt stand there on a silver pedestal in the face
of the rejoicing multitude."
"When?"
"That day will come when thou shalt be in two places at the same time,
in Janina and in Stambul; the days to come will explain it."
"One word more. Wherefore didst thou mention that woman whom I love
best?"
"She will be the first to betray thee."
"Accursed one!" roared Ali, drawing his sword and madly striking in
the direction of the voice.
The sword hissed fiercely through the vacant air, and the next moment
the voice replied from a respectable distance:
"It has happened already."
"This is a dream, all a dream!" moaned Ali.
"'Tis no dream; thou art wide awake," cried the mysterious voice.
"If it be no dream, give me a sign that I may know before I depart
hence that I have not been dreaming."
"First put thy sword into its sheath."
"I have done so," said Ali; but he lied, for he had only slipped it
into his girdle.
"Into the sheath, I say," cried the voice.
It was with a tremor that Ali felt that this being could distinguish
his slightest movement in the dark.
"And now stretch forth thy hand!" cried the voice. It was now quite
close to him.
Ali stretched forth his hand, and the same instant he felt a vigorous,
manly hand seize his own in a grasp of steel; so strong, so cruel was
the pressure that the blood started from the tips of his fingers.
At last the invisible being let go, and said in a whisper as it did
so:
"Not a muscle of thy face moved under the pressure of my hand; only
Tepelenti could so have endured."
"And there is but one man living who could press my hand like that,"
replied Ali. "His name was Behram, the son of Halil Patrona,[3] who,
forty years ago, was my companion in warfare, and has since
disappeared. Who art thou?"
[Footnote 3: The extraordinary adventures of this Mussulman reformer
are recorded in another of Jókai's Turkish stories, _A feher rózsa_
(_The White Rose_).]
"Aleikum unallah!"[4] said the voice, instead of replying.
[Footnote 4: "God be with thee!"]
"Who art thou?" again cried Ali, advancing a step.
"Aleikum unallah!" was the parting salutation of the already
far-distant voice.
The mighty pasha turned back in a reverie, and when he got back into
the moonlight, he still saw plainly on his hand the drops of blood
which that powerful grasp had caused to leap forth from the tips of
his fingers.