A BALL IN THE SERAGLIO
It was the birthday of the Sultana Valideh. The Sultana, Mahmoud's
mother, was, we may remember, a Frenchwoman, whose parents, natives of
the Isle of Martinique, had sent her to Paris while still very young,
and placed her, till she was sixteen, in a convent to be educated.
Then the family sent word that she was to return to the beautiful
island on the farther side of Africa; but during the voyage a tempest
destroyed the ship, and the crew had to take to the boats. One of
these boats, in which was the pretty French girl, was captured by
Barbary corsairs, who sold her to the Sultan. The rest we know, of
course--
"Elle eut beau dire: Je me meurs!
De nonne elle devient Sultane!"
Those poor flowers that are brought together from all the corners of
the earth to stock the Grand Signior's harem, and who know nothing
except how to love, paled before the radiant loveliness and the
sparkling wit of this damsel, who had been brought up in the midst of
European culture. She became the favorite wife of Selim, she bore him
Mahmoud, and her son loved his mother much better than all his damsels
put together.
A great surprise had been prepared for the Sultana Valideh. The Sultan
had arranged the whole thing himself in secret. He was going to give a
dance, after the European fashion, in the Seraglio.
Tailors were brought from Vienna who set to work upon dresses in the
latest fashion for the odalisks; the eunuchs were taught the latest
waltz music, a minuet, and two French square dances; and the girls
were all taught how to dance these dances. The men who had admittance
into the harem, the Kizlar-Agasi, the Anaktar Bey, the heir to the
throne (Abdul Mejid), and the Sultan himself, wore brown European
dress-suits, so that when the Sultana stepped into the magnificently
illuminated porcelain chamber she stood rooted to the floor with
astonishment. She imagined herself to be at a court ball at Paris,
just as she had seen it at the Louvre when a child. A surging mob of
hundreds and hundreds of young odalisks was proudly strutting to and
fro in stylish dresses of the latest fashion, in long gloves and silk
stockings. Instead of turbans, plumed hats and bouquets adorned the
magnificent masses of their curled and frizzled locks. They moved
about with bare shoulders and bosoms, in soft wavy dresses, with fans
painted over with butterflies, freely laughing and jesting in this, to
them, newest of worlds, and the only thing that differentiated this
ball from our dancing entertainments was the absence of the darker
portion of the show--the masculine element.
There were only four representatives of this _sombre nuance_--to wit,
the Sultan, the heir to the throne, the Kizlar-Agasi, and the Anaktar
Bey. Of these four, two were no longer and two were not yet men. All
four were dressed in stiff Hungarian dolmans, long black pantaloons,
and red fezes. The Sultan, with his thick-set figure, would have
passed very well for a substantial Hungarian deputy-lord-lieutenant,
with his tight-fitting, bulging dolman buttoned right up to his chin.
The young prince's elegant figure, on the other hand, was brought into
strong relief by his well-made suit; his hair was nicely curled on
both sides, and his genteel white shirt was visible beneath his open
dolman. The Kizlar-Agasi, on the contrary, cut a very amusing figure
in his unwonted garb. He was constantly endeavoring to thrust his hand
into his girdle, and only thus perceived that he had none, and he kept
on holding down the tails of his coat, as if he felt ashamed that they
might not reach low enough to cover him decently.
The Sultana Valideh was favorably surprised. The spectacle brought
back to her her childish years, and she gratefully pressed her son to
her bosom for this delicate attention, while he respectfully kissed
his mother's hands. The Sultan scattered his love among a great many
women, but his mother alone could boast of possessing his respect.
The odalisks surrounded the good Sultan, rejoicing and caressing him.
He was never severe to any of them--nay, rather, he was the champion,
the defender of them all, and those whom he loved might be quite sure
that his affection would be constant.
Every one tried to please the Sultana Valideh by showing her their new
garments, but none of them found such favor in her eyes as the new
flower, which had only recently been introduced into the Seraglio,
and was now the foremost of them all, the beautiful Circassian damsel.
Her light step, the dove-like droop of her neck, the charm of her
full, round shoulders, and her lovely young bosom, were such that one
was almost tempted to believe that she had been carried off bodily
from some Parisian salon, where they know so well how to take the
utmost advantage of all the resources of fashion. Her locks were
dressed up _à la Vallière_, with negligently falling curls which gave
a slightly masculine expression to her face--an additional charm in
the eyes of a connoisseur. Yes, the Greek merchant was right; there
was no spot on the earth worth anything except the place where Milieva
lived and moved.
The Valideh kissed the odalisk on the forehead, and led her by the
hand to the Sultan, who would not permit her to kiss his hand (who
ever heard of a lady kissing the hand of a gentleman in evening
dress?), but permitted the young heir to the throne to take Milieva on
his arm and conduct her through the room. What a pretty pair of
children they made! Abdul Mejid at this time was scarce twelve years
of age, the girl perhaps was fourteen; but for the difference of their
clothes, nobody could have said which was the boy and which the girl.
And now the tones of the hidden orchestra began to be heard, and a
fresh surprise awaited the Sultana. She heard once more the pianoforte
melodies which she had known long ago, and the height of her amazement
was reached when the Sultan invited her to dance--a minuet.
What an absurd idea! The Sultana dowager to dance a minuet with her
son, the Sultan, before all those laughing odalisks, who had never
beheld such a thing before? Where was the second couple? Why here--the
prince and Milieva, of course. They take their places opposite the
imperial couple, and to slow, dreamy music, with great dignity they
dance together the courteous and melancholy dance, bowing and
courtesying to each other with as much majesty and _aplomb_ as was
ever displayed by the powdered cavaliers and beauty-plastered
goddesses of the age of the _OEil de Boeuf_.
Never had such a spectacle been seen in the Seraglio.
The Sultana herself was amazed at the triumphant dexterity which
Milieva displayed in the dance; she was a consummate maid of honor,
with that princely smile for which Gabrielle D'Estrées was once so
famous. The good Mahmoud so lost himself in the contemplation of the
eyes of Milieva, his _vis-à-vis_, that towards the end of the dance he
quite forgot his own part in it, folding Milieva to his breast in
defiance of all rule and ceremony, and even kissing her face twice or
thrice, although he ought not to have gone beyond kissing her
hand--nay, he ought not to have kissed her hand at all, but the hand
of his partner, the Sultana Valideh.
When the minuet was over the eunuch musicians played a waltz in which
all the odalisks took part, clinging to one another in couples, and
thus they danced the pretty _trois pas_ dance, for the _deux pas_
revolution was the invention of a later and more progressive age.
Louder than the music was the joyous uproar of the dancers themselves.
Here and there some of them tumbled on the slippery floor to which
they were not accustomed, and the nymphs coming after them fell
around them in heaps. Some disliked the dance or were weary, but their
firier and more robust partners dragged them along, willy-nilly. The
old Kizlar-Agasi and the bey stood in the midst of them to take care
that no scandal took place. Suddenly the madcap odalisk army
surrounded them, clung on to them in twos and threes, dragged them
into the mad waltz, and twisted them round and round at a galloping
pace, till the two good old gentlemen had no more breath left in them.
The Sultan and the Valideh, with the prince and Milieva, were sitting
on a raised daïs, laughing and looking on at the merry spectacle. The
pipers piped more briskly, the drummers drummed more furiously, the
cymbals clashed more loudly than ever, while the odalisks dragged
their prey about uproariously.
Ah! Listen! What didst thou hear, good Sultan? What noise is that
outside which mingles with the hubbub within? Outside there also is to
be heard the roll of drums, the flourish of trumpets, and the shouts
of men.
Nonsense! 'Tis but imagination. Bring hither the glasses--not those
tiny cups of sherbet, for this is the birthday of the Valideh. We will
be Europeans to-night. Bring hither wine and glasses for a toast!
The Sultan had a particular fondness for Tokay and champagne, and the
ambassadors of both these great Powers had the greatest influence with
him.
The odalisks also had to be made to taste these wines; and after that
the dance proceeded more merrily, and the boisterous music and
singing grew madder and madder.
What was that?
The Sultan grew attentive. What uproar is that outside the Seraglio?
What light is that which shines at the top of the round windows?
That uproar is no beating of drums; those shouts are not the shouts of
revellers; that din is not the beating of cymbals; no, 'tis the
clashing of swords, the thundering of cannons, the tumult of a siege,
and that light is not the light of bonfires but of blazing rafters!
Up, up, Mahmoud, from thy sofa! Away with thy glass and out with thy
sword! This is no night for revelry; death is abroad; insurrection is
at thy very gate! They are besieging the Seraglio!
Twelve thousand Janissaries, joined with the rabble of Stambul, are
attacking the gates at the very time when the orchestra is playing its
liveliest airs in the illuminated hall.
"Do ye hear that?" exclaimed Kara Makan, the most famous orator of the
Janissaries, who with his own hand had hung up the Metropolitan of
Constantinople on the very threshold of the palace. "Do ye hear that
music? Here they are rejoicing when the whole empire around them is in
mourning. Do ye know what are the latest tidings this night? The
Suliotes have captured Gaskho Bey, and annihilated our army before
Janina. A woman has blown up the ship of the Kapudan Pasha, and the
Shah has fallen upon Kermandzhan with an army! Destruction is drawing
near to us, and treachery dwells in the Seraglio. Hearken! They dance,
they sing, they bathe their lips in wine, and their blasphemies bring
upon us the scourge of Allah! We shed our tears and our blood, and
they make merry and mock at us! Shall not they also weep? Shall not
their blood also be shed? So fare it with them as it has fared with
our brethren whom they sent to the shambles!"
The furious mob answered these seditious words with an indescribable
bellowing.
"If we traversed the whole empire we should not find a worse spot than
this place."
"Set fire to the Seraglio!" cried one voice suddenly, and the others
took up the cry.
"And if you escape from all other enemies, would you fall into the
claws of the worst enemies of all?"
"Death to the Viziers! Death to the lords of the palace!" thundered
the people; and one voice close to Kara Makan, rising above the
others, exclaimed, "Death to the Sultan!"
Kara Makan turned in that direction and defended his master. "Hurt not
the Sultan! The life of the Sultan is sacred. He and his children are
the last survivors of the blood of Omar; and although he be not worthy
to sit on the throne which the heroic Muhammad erected for his
descendants, yet he is the last of his race, and, therefore, the head
of the Sultan is sacred. But death upon the head of the Reis-Effendi,
death to the Kizlar-Agasi and the Kapudan Pasha! They are the cause of
our desolation. The chiefs of the Giaours pay them to destroy their
country. Tear all these up by the roots, and if there be any children
of their family, destroy them also, even to the very babes and
sucklings, that the memory of them may perish utterly!"
The mob thundered angrily at the gates of the Seraglio, which were
shut and fastened with chains. The Janissaries blew the horns of
revolt, the drums rolled, and within there the Sultan was reposing his
head on the bosom of a beautiful girl. Suddenly a loud report shook
the whole Seraglio. An audacious ichoglan had fired his gun upon the
mob as it rushed to attack the water-gate.
The Sultan, in dismay, quitted the harem, and hastened to the middle
gate in order to address the mob. On his way through the corridor, his
servants and his ministers threw themselves at his feet and implored
him not to show himself to the people. Mahmoud did not listen to them.
In the confusion of the moment, moreover, it never occurred to him
that he was wearing a Frankish costume, which the people hated and
execrated.
When he appeared on the balcony the light of the torches fell full
upon him, and the Janissaries recognized him. Every one at once
pointed their fingers at him, and immediately an angry and scornful
howl arose.
"Look! that is the Sultan! Behold the Caliph--the Caliph, the Padishah
of the Moslems--in the garb of the Giaours! That is Mahmoud, the ally
of our enemies!"
The Sultan shrank before this furious uproar of the mob, and,
involuntarily falling back, stammered, pale as death:
"With what shall we allay this tempest?"
His servants, with quivering lips, stood around him. At that moment
they neither feared nor respected their master.
Suddenly a bold young ichoglan rushed towards the Sultan, and
answered his question in a courageous and confident voice:
"With swords, with guns, with weapons!"
It was Thomar.
The Sultan scrutinized the youth from head to foot, amazed at his
audacity; then hastening back to his dressing-chamber, exchanged his
ball dress for his royal robes, and, coming back from the inner
apartments, descended into the court-yard.
The guns were already pointed at the gates, the topijis stood beside
them, match in hand, impatiently awaiting the order to fire.
When the Sultan appeared in the court-yard he was at once surrounded
by some hundreds of the ichoglanler, determined to defend him to the
last drop of their blood. Mahmoud again recognized Thomar among them;
he appeared to be the leading spirit of the band.
The Sultan beckoned to them to put back their swords in their sheaths.
He commanded the topijis to extinguish their matches. Next he ordered
that the gate of the Seraglio should be thrown open to the people.
Then, having bidden every one to stand aside, he went alone towards
the gate in his imperial robes, with a majestic bearing.
No sooner was the gate thrown open than the mob streamed into the
court-yard with torches and flashing weapons in their hands, standing
for a moment dumb with astonishment at the appearance of the Sultan.
He was no longer ridiculous, as he had been in that foreign garb. The
majestic bearing of the prince stilled the tumult for an instant, but
for an instant only. The following moment a hand was extended from
among the mob of rebels which tore the Sultan's caftan from his
shoulder.
Mahmoud grew pale at this audacity, and this pallor was a fresh
occasion of danger to him, for now he was suddenly seized from all
sides. The Sultan turned, therefore, and perceiving Thomar, called to
him, "Defend my harem!" and, at the same time freeing his sword-arm,
he drew his sword, waved it above his hand, and, while his foes were
waiting to see on whom the blow would fall, he threw the sword to
Thomar, exclaiming, "Defend my son!"
The young ichoglan grasped Mahmoud's sword, and, while the captured
Sultan disappeared in the mazes of the mob, he and his comrades
returned to the inner court-yard, and, barricading the door, fiercely
defended the position against the insurgents. He had now to show
himself worthy of that sword, the sword of the Sultan.
Gradually two thousand ichoglanler and three thousand bostanjis
gathered round the young hero. The Janissaries already lay in heaps
before the door, which they riddled with bullets till it looked like a
corn-sifter. But the youths of the Seraglio repelled every onset.
And why did not the Sultan remain with them? They would have defended
him against all the world: Who knew now what had become of him?
Perhaps they had killed him outright.
The Janissaries speedily perceived that they could not have done
anything worse for themselves than to have brought torches with them,
for thereby they were distinctly visible to the defenders of the
Seraglio, and every shot that came from thence told.
"Put out the torches!" shouted Kara Makan, who was holding a huge
concave buckler in front of him, and felt a third bullet pierce
through the twofold layers of buffalo-hide and graze his body.
The torches went out one after another, whereupon the spacious
court-yard was darkened; only the flash of firearms cast an occasional
gleam of light upon the struggling mass.
It might have been two hours after midnight when suddenly there was a
cessation of hostilities. Both sides were weary, and ceased firing;
the Janissaries whispered amongst themselves, and at last in the midst
of a deep silence, Kara Makan's thunderous voice made itself heard:
"Listen, all of ye who are inside the Seraglio. Ye are good warriors,
and we are good warriors also, and it is folly for the Faithful to
destroy one another. We did not take up arms to slay you and plunder
the Seraglio, neither do we wish to kill the Padishah nor the heir to
the throne; but we would rescue them from the hands of the traitors
who surround them, and we would also deliver the realm from faithless
Viziers and counsellors. Give us, therefore, the prince, the Sultan's
son. Of a truth no harm shall befall him, and we will thereupon quit
the court-yard of the Seraglio and trouble nobody within these doors.
If, however, you will not grant our request, then Allah be merciful to
all who are within these beleaguered walls."
The Kizlar-Agasi conveyed this message into the Seraglio, and
besiegers and besieged awaited with rapt attention the reply of the
Valideh; for the decision lay with her--she was superior in rank to
all four of the Asseki sultanas.
After the lapse of a quarter of an hour the Kizlar-Agasi returned, and
signified to the besiegers that the prince would be handed over to
them.
The Janissaries received this message with a howl of triumph, while
the ichoglanler shrugged their shoulders.
"They are not all women in there for nothing," said Thomar, savagely,
to the Kizlar-Agasi, and he remained standing in the gate, that he
might, at any rate, kiss the young prince's hand and whisper to him
not to go.
The Janissaries relit their torches and crowded towards the gate.
Inside reigned a pitch-black darkness.
Not long afterwards footsteps were audible in the dark corridor, and,
escorted by two torch-bearers, the prince descended the steps. He had
on the same garment which he wore when he went on horseback to the
Mosque of Sophia during the Feast of Bairam. How the people had then
huzzahed before him! He wore pantaloons of rose-colored silk, yellow
buskins with slender heels, a green caftan embroidered with gold
flowers, and a handsome yellow silk vest buttoned up to his chin. His
ribbons and buttons were made so as to represent brilliant fluttering
butterflies incrusted with precious stones.
On reaching the gate he beckoned to the torch-bearers to stand still,
sent back the Kizlar-Agasi, and, proceeding all alone to the gate,
commanded that it should be flung open.
While this was being done Thomar pressed close up to him, and seizing
the prince's hand, kissed it, at the same time whispering in his ear,
"Go not; we will defend you if you remain here."
The prince pressed Thomar's hand and whispered back, "I must go; you
keep on defending the Seraglio!" And with that he embraced the youth
and kissed him twice with great fervor.
Thomar was somewhat startled by this burning, affectionate kiss, and
wondered what it meant. The darkness did not allow him to distinguish
the prince's features; and when he tried to detain him once more the
prince hastily disengaged himself and stepped forth from under the
dark vault among the Janissaries.
Thomar covered his eyes with his hands; he did not want to see the
fate of the prince at that moment. It was quite possible that the
blood-thirsty might cut him down on the spot in a sudden access of
fury.
The prince stepped forth among the rebels.
At that moment a cry of unbridled joy, triumph, and blood-thirstiness
burst from the Janissaries. It needed but one of them to raise his
hand, and the next would speedily have completed the bloodiest deed of
all.
But the prince stood before them haughtily and valiantly, and, with
amazing audacity, cried to them, "Down on your knees before me, ye
rebels!"
At these words Thomar, with a start of terror, looked at the prince.
The full light of the torches fell upon his charming face. It was not
Abdul Mejid, but--Milieva! They had dressed her inside the harem in
garments suitable to the Feast of Bairam, and she had come out instead
of the prince, courageously, as if she had been born to it. Who was
likely to notice the change? The heart of this odalisk loved to play a
manly part, and it was not merely the masculine garb she wore which
transformed her, but the masculine soul within her.
The Janissaries, moreover, were dumfounded by this bold attitude. This
graceful, noble figure stood face to face with them and domineered the
mob with a commanding look, proudly, majestically, as became a born
ruler. And yet death hovered over the head of him who dared to say, "I
am the prince!"
Thomar, forgetting himself, seized his sword, and would have rushed to
the defence of his sister but his comrades held him back. "What would
you do, unhappy wretch? Trust to Fate!"
Kara Makan, in savage defiance, approached the false prince with a
drawn sword in his hand.
"On your knees before me!" cried the odalisk, and indicating where he
should kneel with an imperious gesture, she looked steadily into the
eyes of the savage warrior.
The ferocious figure stood hesitatingly before her. The magic of her
look held the wild beast in him spellbound for an instant. His
bloodshot eyes slowly drooped, his hand, with its flashing sword, sank
down by his side, his knees gave way beneath him, and, falling down at
the feet of the young child, he submissively murmured a salaam,
kissing her hand and laying his bloody sword at her feet.
Milieva pressed her right hand on the head of the subdued rebel,
looked proudly and fearlessly upon the dumb-stricken rebels, and then,
raising the sword and giving it back to Kara Makan, she cried, "Go
before and open a way for me!"
As if in obedience to a magic word, the crowd parted on both sides
before her, and Kara Makan, with his sword over his shoulder, led the
way along. The crowd, with an involuntary homage, made way for her
everywhere from the Seraglio to the Seven Towers, and two
torch-bearers walked by her side, between whom she marched as proudly
as if she were making her triumphal progress. Nobody perceived the
deception. The resemblance of the young face to that of the prince,
the well-known festal raiment of the Feast of Bairam, her manly
bearing, all combined to keep up the delusion, and amongst this
_canaille_ which held her in its power there was not a single
dignitary who knew the prince intimately and might have detected the
fraud.
The Sultan had just been thrust into the dungeon of the Seven Towers,
that place of dismal memories for the Sultans and their families in
general. In that octagonal chamber, whose round windows overlooked the
sea, more than one mortal sigh had escaped from the lips of the
descendants of Omar, whom a powerful faction or a triumphant rival
had, sooner or later, condemned to death.
It was now morning, the uproar of the rebellion had died away outside,
the Seraglio was no longer besieged. It was now that Kara Makan
appeared before the Sultan.
The Padishah was sitting on the ground--on the bare ground. His royal
robes were still upon him, a diamond aigrette sparkled in the turban
of the Caliph, and there he sat upon the ground, and never took his
eyes off it.
"Your majesty!" cried Kara Makan, addressing him.
The Padishah, as if he had not heard, looked apathetically in front of
him, and not a muscle of his face changed.
"Sire, I stand before thee to speak to thee in the name of the Moslem
people."
He might just as well have been speaking to a marble statue.
"Every storm proceeds from Allah, sire, and nothing which Allah does
is done without cause. When the lightnings are scattered abroad from
the hands of the angel Adramelech, is not the air beneath them heavy
with curses? and when the living earth quakes beneath the towns that
are upon it, shall not innocently spilled blood shake it still more?
So also the Moslem people rising in rebellion is the instrument of
Allah, and Allah knoweth the causes thereof. I will guard my tongue
against telling these causes to thee; thou knowest them right well
already, nor is it for me to reprove the anointed successor of the
Prophet. But I beg thee, sire, to promise me and the people, in the
name of Allah, that thou wilt do what it beseemeth the ruler of the
Ottoman nation to do--promise to remedy our wrongs, and we will set
thee again upon thy throne."
At these words Mahmoud fixed his eyes upon the speaker, and gazed long
upon those dark features, as sinister as an eclipse of the sun. Then
he arose, turned away, and replied in a low voice, hissing with
contempt:
"The Sultan owes no reply to his servants."
Kara Makan's face was convulsed at these words. Scarce was he able to
stifle his wrath, and he replied, in broken sentences:
"Sire, the lion is the king of the desert--but if he is in a cage--he
listens to the voice of his keeper--thou knowest this hand, which hath
fought for thee in many engagements--and thou knowest that whatever
this hand seizeth it seizeth with a grasp of iron."
The Sultan pondered long. Then all at once he seemed to bethink him of
something, for his face seemed to lose its severity, and he turned
towards the Janissary leader with a mild, indulgent look.
"What, then, dost thou require?" This softened look concealed the
genesis of the thought--the Janissaries must be wiped off the face of
the earth. "What dost thou require?" said the Padishah, softly.
Kara Makan put on an important look, as of one who knows that the fate
of empires is in his hands.
"Hearken to our desires. We are honest Mussulmans. We do not ask
impossibilities. If thou canst convince us that our demands are
unlawful, we renounce them; if thou canst not convince us, accomplish
them."
Mahmoud's lips wore a bitter smile at this wise speech.
"I do not strive with you," he replied. "Ye command me. The Caliph of
caliphs listens to his servants. Bring hither parchment and an
ink-horn, and dictate to my pen what ye demand. The Sultan will be
your scribe, great rebel!"
Kara Makan was not bright enough to penetrate the irony of these
words; nay, rather, he felt himself flattered by the humility of the
Sultan's speech. With haughty self-assurance he bared his bosom and
drew forth a large roll of manuscript.
"I will save your majesty the trouble," said he to Mahmoud, smoothing
out the document before him. "Behold, it is all ready. Thou hast only
to write thy name beneath it."
"Will ye allow me to read it?" inquired the Sultan, with the same
bitter smile; "or is it the wish of the people that I should sign it
unread?"
"As your majesty pleases."
Mahmoud took up the documents one after another, and piled them up
beside him as he read them.
"Ah! the appointment of a new seraskier! I will read no further. I
agree, but I would know his name. Is he whom you desire fit for the
post?"
"We want Kurshid," explained Kara Makan, perceiving that the Sultan
had not read the document.
"And the Janissaries demand other rewards for themselves. 'Tis only
natural: I grant them. They cannot be expected to storm the Seraglio
for nothing. The chief treasurer will pay you whatever you require.
This third article, too, I see, demands the capture of Janina. Be it
so. I grant it. Most probably the whole Janissary host will want to go
against Ali Pasha."
"So long as thou art at their head," said Kara Makan, somewhat
disturbed. "The Janissaries are only bound to fight under the direct
command of the Sultan."
"And all these other demands are equally reasonable, eh?" said the
Sultan, just glancing at one or two of them.
He took up the last one, but when he had unfolded it his face
darkened, and he suddenly leaped to his feet, his good-natured apathy
changed into wrath and fierceness, and, striking the open document
with his fist, he exclaimed, with an access of emotion:
"What's this? Are ye so bold as to expect me to sign this paper?"
Kara Makan was so well prepared for this outburst of anger on the
Sultan's part that he was not in the least taken aback. With rustic
stolidity he replied:
"We wish it, and we demand it."
"Do you know what is written in this document?"
"Yes; that thou must free the realm from foreigners; that thou must
put the Russian ambassador Stroganov on board ship and send him home;
refuse to admit French and English ships into the Bejkoz; send the
Sultana Valideh far away to Damascus; and slay the Grand Vizier, the
Kizlar-Aga, the Berber Pasha, and the Kapudan Pasha, and give their
bodies to the people."
The Grand Signior contemptuously threw the document to the floor and
trampled it beneath his feet.
"Shameless filibusterers," he cried; "not blood but money is what you
want. Ye want permission not to deliver the realm, but to plunder it.
And you expect the Padishah to sanction it! Did not you yourselves
raise the Viziers to power? Were not you the cause of their not being
able to make any use of that power? Whenever the arms of the Giaours
were triumphant, were you not always the first to fly from the field
of battle? And when the realm was sinking, were you not always the
last to hasten to its assistance? You are no descendants, but the mere
shadows of those glorious Janissaries whose names are written with
letters of blood in the annals of foreign nations; but ye make but a
poor and wretched figure therein. Kill me, then! I shall not be the
first Sultan whom the Janissaries have murdered, but, in Allah's name
I say it, I shall be the last. After me, either nobody will sit on the
throne of Omar, or, if any one sits there, he will be your ruin."
The opposition of his august captive only restored the Janissary
leader to his proper element. He felt much more at home with those
wrathful eyes than with the previous contemptuous nonchalance. He
could now give back like for like.
He picked up the crumpled document, in which were written the
death-sentences of the Viziers, and, brushing off the dust, again
presented it to the Sultan.
"Either sign this document or descend from the throne of the family of
Omar, and we will seek us out from among the descendants of the
Prophet another who shall reign in thy stead."
"Most abject of slaves! In thy pride thou knowest not what thou
sayest! Death comes from Allah and none can avoid it; but who amongst
the descendants of Omar would be powerful enough to seize the royal
sceptre, and who would be senseless enough to desire it?"
"Look at me."
"I am looking. The sun does not soil itself by shining upon a swamp,
and therefore I may look even at thee; but I see nothing in thee that
would justify the adorning of thy head with a diadem so long as one
of the descendants of Sulaiman the Magnificent is alive."
"Another word and thou shalt cease to live!" cried the desperado,
haughtily throwing back his head before the Sultan. "Art thou aware
that thy son Abdul Mejid is in our hands?"
The Sultan shuddered. His consternation at these words was written in
every feature.
"My son, Abdul Mejid? Impossible!"
"So it is. The Sultana Valideh gave him up at our request."
"Oh, madness!" exclaimed the Sultan; and he began pacing to and fro.
Abdul Mejid was still a mere child. The shock of such a rebellion
might easily make an epileptic of him. To deliver him into the hands
of these rebels was as good as to sign his death-warrant. Even if they
did not kill him outright, his nerves might suffer from their
violence, and he might perish, as the two and twenty other children of
Sultan Mahmoud had perished, every one of whom had died of epilepsy.
Their delicate nervous constitutions had been shattered in their youth
under the influence of that perpetual terror to which the children of
the Caliph of caliphs had been exposed from time immemorial. What,
then, might not happen to Abdul Mejid if he fell into the hands of
this savage mob?
"Oh, ye are hell's own children! Ye are worse than the Giaours, worse
than the Greeks, worse than the Muscovites! Ye do place your feet on
the heads of your rulers!"
The despair of the Sultan emboldened the Janissary still further.
"Sign this document, or thy son shall die in our hands!"
"Miserable cowards!" moaned the Sultan. "And cowards they also who
should have defended him! Did not even his mother defend him? Was it
necessary to give him up?"
"He is in no danger," said Kara Makan; "nay, he is in a safe place. It
rests with thee to receive him back into thy arms;" and he shoved
towards him again the soiled and crumpled manuscript.
The Padishah, overcome by the shock of his own feelings, humiliated by
the sense of his own soft-heartedness, tottered to the wall, and when
his groping hands came in contact with the cold marble he collapsed
altogether, and leaning against it, he pressed his burning temples to
the cold stone. The Janissary might now say whatever he would, the
Sultan neither listened to nor answered him.
At last the rough warrior, who had jumped so suddenly into power,
shouted angrily to his comrades, who were cooling their heels outside,
"Bring hither the prince!"
The Sultan heard the pattering of many footsteps in the corridor
outside, and the clashing of swords mingled with the murmuring of
voices, but he did not look in that direction.
"Behold!" cried Kara Makan, advancing towards him, "here is thy son! A
drawn sword hovers above his head! Choose either to see thine own name
at the foot of that paper or his head at thy feet!"
Mahmoud trembled, but he answered nothing, nor did he turn his head.
"Write, or thy son dies!" cried a number of the Janissaries, suddenly.
Then a musical, familiar voice responded amidst the wild uproar:
"My father! hearken not unto them! Let them slay me if they be valiant
enough, but chaffer not with thy slaves!"
Mahmoud looked up in astonishment at this well-known voice, and saw
before him a handsome figure in the prince's garments and with a proud
and majestic countenance; but that face, though familiar to him and
very dear, was not his son's face. Ah, it was Milieva!
The odalisk perceived that Mahmoud's features softened, that he looked
tenderly upon her; and as if she feared that the Sultan might yield
out of compassion towards her, she hastily turned her flaming face to
the Janissaries and exclaimed:
"Ye blood-thirsty dogs of Samound! who bay down the sun from the
heavens, accomplish your bloody work! Forward, ye valiant heroes, with
whose backs alone the enemy is familiar, fall upon me in twos and
threes, if any one of you has not the courage to plunge his steel
single-handed into the heart of the last scion of Omar's stock! My
death will not constrain the Sultan to bargain with you. Kill me while
you have power over me, for if ever I have power over you I will not
weep before you, as ye have seen Mahmoud and Selim weep; but I will so
utterly destroy you that even he who wears a garment like unto yours,
even he who shall mention your name, shall pronounce his own doom."
The infuriated rebels raised their flashing swords above the head of
the presumptuous child at these menacing words; another moment and she
would have lain in the dust. But Mahmoud arose, spurned them aside
from the prince, as they supposed him to be, and taking from the hands
of Kara Makan the document and writing materials, signed his name
beneath it. Milieva seized the Sultan's hand to prevent him from
writing, but he tenderly kissed her on the forehead and gently
whispered, "Rather would I lose the whole world than thee," and with
that he placed in the hands of the Janissaries the subscribed
death-warrants.
After obtaining these concessions, the rebels grew calmer, the Sultan
proclaimed amnesty for all offenders, appointed the chief brawlers to
high offices, and distributed money amongst them from the treasury.
Peace was thus restored. The Sultan and the sham prince returned to
the Seraglio, accompanied all the way by a vast throng, and the whole
square by the fountains of Ibrahim was filled by the well-known
turbans of the Janissaries, who, in the joy of their insulting
triumph, shouted long life to the humiliated Padishah.
Mahmoud surveyed the huzzaing throng, where, man to man, they stood so
tightly squeezed together that nothing could be distinguished but a
sea of heads. And the Sultan thought to himself, "What a fine thing it
would be to sweep all those heads away at one stroke!"