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 r
 
 OE CALIF. LIBRARY, LOS JJGHJ8 
 
 1 he F lower of Destiny 
 Old Days of the Serail 
 
 By 
 
 Margaret Mordecai 
 
 Author of "A Key to the Orient' 
 
 G. P. Putnam's Sons 
 New York and London 
 f?nicfcerbocfter press 
 1910
 
 COPYRIGHT, IQIO 
 
 BY 
 MARGARET MORDECAI 
 
 Ube fmtcfeerbocfcer press, Hew
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE FLOWER OF DESTINY . . 3 
 THE LAST OF THE FATIMITES . 81 
 THE NEW MOON OF ISLAM . . 159 
 THE HEART OF BOSNIA . .217 
 THE SWEET WATERS OF ASIA . 287 
 APPENDIX 335 
 
 
 iii 
 
 2137378
 
 The Flower of Destiny
 
 THE FLOWER OF DESTINY 
 
 IN the first years of the seventh 
 century, the power and glory of 
 the world were divided between the 
 empires of Rome and Persia. Their 
 frontiers met in a long line till they were 
 separated, as by a wedge, by the barren 
 land of Arabia, which neither Emperor 
 had thought it worth his while to con- 
 quer, but in which already burned that 
 spark which was soon to set the world 
 on fire and to consume both their 
 empires. 
 
 At this moment the Romans, though 
 unfortunate in war, rejoiced to own 
 the sway of the one sovereign of the 
 Eastern line who was both great and 
 good, Heraclius. 
 
 In Persia the time was most fortunate, 
 for after the revolution and civil war 
 which had torn the Empire asunder, 
 3
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 in the time of his father Hormouz, and 
 after he had himself been driven into 
 exile, the Persians beheld, seated on the 
 throne of Sassan, the great Chosroes, 
 under whom Persia and the Sassanid 
 dynasty attained the summit of their 
 greatest glory. 
 
 On a morning in the month of May 
 of the year 619, the Shah in Shah, 
 Chosroes, the great King of Persia, was 
 holding his divan in his favourite resi- 
 dence, the wonderful palace of Artemita. 
 The war with Rome was over. Chos- 
 roes had been restored to his throne by 
 the Emperor Maurice, whom he thence- 
 forth called his father; but the massacre 
 by the monster Phocas of that good 
 monarch and all his family had broken 
 all his ties with the Romans, and though 
 Heraclius had come as the avenger of 
 Maurice, Chosroes had felt no hesitation 
 in attacking and tearing from him his 
 richest and fairest provinces. Victory 
 had everywhere attended the Persian 
 arms. Within two years the maps of 
 the two empires were entirely changed, 
 4
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 and Chosroes had taken from his rival 
 Egypt, Asia Minor, Palestine, Syria, and 
 even Rhodes, and reconstructed the 
 Empire of Darius. 
 
 Now the war was over and the great 
 King was taking his rest and enjoying 
 the fruits of his victory, amid that 
 incredible luxury and splendour which 
 the Oriental writers so love to describe. 
 
 On this special morning, the great 
 King sat as usual on his throne in the 
 hall of the divan. This hall was built 
 entirely of white marble carved like 
 lace- work, with airy columns supporting 
 the roof and a whole appearance of 
 fairy-like lightness. At one end on a 
 raised dais stood the throne, which was 
 made of solid gold inlaid with jewels, 
 and on either side of the dais were 
 fountains with broad basins into which 
 the water streamed from the mouths 
 of marble lions. 
 
 Nobles and court officials in silk and 
 
 gold stood around and just below the 
 
 dais, and in front of the great King was 
 
 a group which contrasted strangely 
 
 5
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 in their simplicity with the splendour 
 around them, three Arabs in robes 
 of brown camel's hair. They were an 
 embassy from a private citizen of Mecca 
 who called himself a prophet, and had 
 gathered around him a certain following, 
 Mohammed, of the family of El 
 Hashim, of the tribe of the Koresh. 
 This person had written a letter to the 
 King of Persia (or rather it had been 
 written for him, since he could not 
 write), in which he summoned him to 
 acknowledge him as the Prophet of 
 God, and to embrace the religion which 
 he had been sent to reveal. The letter 
 was written in Persian, and Chosroes 
 had read it himself, and still held it 
 in his hand while he looked at the 
 Ambassadors with a contemptuous 
 curiosity. 
 
 "I had heard of your master," he 
 said, "as one who had made some little 
 stir in his own insignificant country, 
 but his insolence in sending such a 
 message to the King of Persia is 
 incredible." 
 
 6
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 "O King," replied the foremost of 
 the ambassadors, " disdain not the 
 message we bring you. It is the truth, 
 and will prevail with or without the 
 aid of earthly kings. There is no God 
 but Allah, and Mohammed is His 
 Prophet!" 
 
 The face of Chosroes flushed with a 
 sudden anger at the Arab's boldness. 
 
 " In Persia, " he said, " we know but 
 one God, Ahuromazda; one prophet, 
 Zarathustra Spitama! Go back to 
 your master, the camel driver of Mecca, 
 and tell him that you have delivered 
 his letter, and that this is the answer 
 of Chosroes." 
 
 And with one turn of his strong hand 
 he tore the parchment in two, and threw 
 it into the fountain on his right, where 
 it floated for an instant, and then 
 disappeared. 
 
 In the harem of the royal palace 
 
 were collected the most beautiful women 
 
 who could be bought for money in the 
 
 markets of the world: not Persian only, 
 
 7
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 though they had held the palm of 
 beauty, but Syrians, Egyptians, Greeks, 
 maids from the wilds of Turkestan, 
 dark Indian maids, and maids yellow, 
 but beautiful, from the Celestial Em- 
 pire. And still other maids from far 
 and unknown countries who themselves 
 knew not whence they came. And all 
 these bloomed together in the harem 
 of the Shah in Shah; a bouquet culled 
 for his delight, of the fairest flowers 
 from the gardens of the world. 
 
 But Chosroes noted them but little; 
 fine clothes and jewels were given them, 
 indeed. They lived sumptuously, had 
 other slaves to wait on them, who 
 were but slaves themselves, and whiled 
 away their time in the palace and its 
 gardens. 
 
 Chosroes the great King of Persia, the 
 glory of the house of Sassan, thought 
 of but one, and loved but one, beside 
 whom, indeed, all others paled like 
 stars beside the sun Sira, a Christian 
 slave, from the banks of the Danube 
 or the Rhine. She knew not indeed 
 8
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 her own origin, but remembered only 
 the mountains, the forests, and the river, 
 and the long journey to Constantinople, 
 where she had been reared like many 
 another for the slave market. Thence 
 in the first budding of her beauty she 
 had been once more transplanted to 
 Persia, and sold to the procurer of the 
 royal harem. 
 
 Her history, until Chosroes set eyes 
 on her, had been the ordinary history 
 of a slave. But from the day on which 
 Chosroes had seen her first, the sig- 
 nificant part of her life began. From 
 that moment she, and she only, swayed 
 the heart of her royal lover. Then 
 Chosroes had been the Prince, the heir 
 of Persia; now he was the King. Sira 
 had followed him in his flight and had 
 shared his exile; now she shared his 
 glory. Siroes, the one child whom she 
 had borne him, was looked upon as the 
 heir apparent of the throne of Sassan, 
 and Sira, though no princess but a 
 slave, was the real Queen of Persia. 
 
 Nor was it to her beauty alone that 
 9
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 Sira owed her empire, but to her in- 
 telligence and her fresh and brilliant 
 wit. Hour after hour she could enter- 
 tain and amuse the great King, and 
 though she had been with him now 
 for years, Chosroes never tired of her, 
 but left her every morning with regret, 
 to return to her every evening with 
 delight. Oh, if women only knew the 
 real secret of their power! Youth and 
 beauty fade, tears and scenes repel; 
 but a man never tires of the woman 
 who can make him laugh. 
 
 While Chosroes was holding his divan, 
 Sira sat in the innermost of her apart- 
 ments alone. This room had a vaulted 
 ceiling and one large window, divided 
 by columns into three. It was deco- 
 rated in that style which had obtained 
 in Persia since the earliest times. The 
 walls and ceiling were painted green 
 relieved by red and gold, and inlaid 
 with bits of mirror of irregular shape. 
 The floor and the columns which di- 
 vided and flanked the window were of 
 shining pale green marble, and the 
 10
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 curtains, portieres, and cushions of the 
 divan were of green and silver. 
 
 A silver brazier, in which perfumes 
 burned, stood in the centre of the room, 
 and in the corners were great vases of 
 Chinese porcelain filled with flowers. 
 Five silver lamps of rare workmanship 
 hung from the ceiling by long chains, 
 and a priceless green Bokhara rug 
 was spread in front of the long low 
 divan on which sat Sira. 
 
 The favourite of Chosroes was now 
 in the full bloom of her beauty, with 
 all the rounded softness and voluptu- 
 ousness of perfect womanhood. Hers 
 was a type rare and almost unknown 
 in the Orient, a Celtic blonde. There 
 were those, indeed, who said that Sira 
 was no woman but a water spirit. She 
 was pale with an ivory whiteness and 
 her hair, which fell in silken ringlets 
 almost to the ground, was a wonder- 
 ful green-gold. Her lips were like 
 coral, and her teeth like pearls, and 
 more than all her eyes, fringed with 
 dark lashes like a lake with reeds, 
 ii
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 were green, green as the purest 
 jade. 
 
 The favourite wore a robe of crim- 
 son flowered with gold, opened at the 
 bosom, and caught with a jewelled 
 girdle around her waist. Her arms 
 were bare and clasped with jewelled 
 bracelets, and strings of pearls were 
 twisted in her hair. 
 
 Sira looked ever and anon with a 
 growing impatience towards the en- 
 trance, and presently the portiere was 
 lifted, and another woman entered. 
 She was a young woman, slender and 
 dark and graceful, an unmistakable 
 Egyptian, dressed in an Egyptian robe 
 of dark blue silk threaded with silver, 
 a soft clinging robe which followed all 
 the graces of her figure, and left bare 
 the pale olive of her bosom and arms. 
 Her long black hair fell behind her 
 straight and heavy, and a gold circlet 
 set with sapphires crowned her head. 
 
 Sira rose to meet her, and clasped 
 her in her arms. The Egyptian re- 
 turned the embrace, and the two 
 12
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 women sat down on the divan together 
 holding each other's hands. 
 
 "Oh, Arsinoe," said Sira, "I am so 
 glad that you have come; I have so 
 missed, so longed for you. There has 
 been no one to whom I could open my 
 heart, none with whom I could really 
 talk while you were gone." 
 
 "Yes," said the Egyptian, "I know 
 you love me, and I have thought of 
 you many times while I was beside the 
 Nile. But you know, Sira, my life 
 is given to the study of the stars, and 
 of the magic arts, and my return to my 
 own country was a necessity. I knew 
 much already; but I have learned much 
 more." 
 
 "You are not changed," said Sira, 
 "you are as young and as beautiful as 
 when I first came to Persia; and even 
 then they said you had been the 
 favourite of Hormouz for many years." 
 
 " Yes, " said Arsinoe with a strange 
 
 smile, " I was the chosen one of Hormouz 
 
 when he was a young Prince, before he 
 
 married the mother of Chosroes, the 
 
 13
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 Princess Gudaferid, in the days of the 
 great King, Nushirvan the Just." 
 
 "And you remained his favourite?" 
 said Sira. 
 
 " Yes, in spite of all the rest; just as 
 you remain the only love of Chosroes. 
 And you, Sira," suddenly changing 
 her tone, "you too are still the same, 
 Chosroes still loves you, still lays the 
 wealth of the Persian Empire at your 
 feet, and you are as indifferent to him 
 as ever, and your life, in spite of all its 
 splendour, is cold and empty because 
 you know not love." 
 
 " Yes, " said Sira, " I am still the same. 
 Chosroes thinks that I love him; every 
 one thinks so; no one suspects the 
 truth. I enjoy the power and splendour 
 of my life; but I am weary of it all. 
 God alone knows how weary of that 
 love which is lavished on me, which I 
 see and understand in Chosroes, and 
 which more than all I must feign and 
 cannot feel. Even my child would be 
 more dear to me, if I but loved his 
 father. 
 
 14
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 " Oh, Arsinoe, I know I am ungrateful 
 to Heaven, for I have everything else, 
 everything but the one thing that 
 I desire, the love for which I long, 
 and without which everything else is 
 nothing." 
 
 " Sira, " said the Egyptian, " I can 
 read the stars. I know your destiny, 
 and I tell you that you shall have your 
 heart's desire. The love which Chos- 
 roes has not been able in all these years 
 to win, will bloom like the flower of 
 morning in your heart, and be given in 
 the moment of its birth to whom it is 
 destined. 
 
 " Most women learn to love, but you 
 cannot; with you, love will be the 
 lightning's flash which shines out of 
 the East into the West." 
 
 Sira looked at the Egyptian with a 
 new light in her eyes. " Arsinoe, " she 
 said, "if you can give me this, if 
 you can give me this, you have loved 
 yourself." 
 
 "Yes," said Arsinoe, "and more 
 than once; I have had all that life
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 can give! Perhaps it may be still that 
 I shall love again, but now my heart 
 and soul are in my art. But for you, 
 Sira, I will give you your heart's de- 
 sire. I had not forgotten you, and I 
 have brought you a present." 
 
 "What is it?" asked the favourite. 
 
 The Egyptian did not answer the 
 question, but went on. " Chosroes has 
 given me a house in the palace gardens, 
 with an entrance in the wall. There I 
 have collected all my treasures, and 
 there will I live with my own slaves in 
 perfect liberty, and in return I will serve 
 the Shah in Shah with all my magic 
 art, and all my knowledge of the stars. 
 
 "To-morrow evening Chosroes gives 
 a banquet that will last all night. Tell 
 him that you will come and spend the 
 night with me studying the map of 
 Heaven." 
 
 " And will you really teach me to 
 read the stars?" 
 
 " Nay, that you could not learn ; but 
 I will show you something else that 
 you can understand ; something which I 
 16
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 have brought with me from Egypt, the 
 Flower of Destiny." 
 
 Sira clasped her hands in delight. 
 
 " Is that what you have brought me ? 
 Oh, Arsinoe, you are too good!" 
 
 " No, " said Arsinoe, " the flower of 
 destiny is for myself, though you may 
 see it. I have brought you something 
 else, not from Egypt, but from Persia." 
 
 " What is it? Tell me, Arsinoe. " 
 
 And this time the Egyptian answered : 
 " The most beautiful youth in the 
 Persian Empire." 
 
 The next evening before the banquet 
 Chosroes went to pay a visit to Sira, who 
 received him with her usual apparent 
 delight. 
 
 The King of Persia was tall and stately, 
 with straight features, black eyes and 
 hair, and a black pointed beard. He 
 might have been called handsome, 
 but for his expression, which was stern, 
 sombre, and impenetrable, and made 
 him seem much older than his age. His 
 early vicissitudes and misfortunes had 
 17
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 left their mark behind; but Chosroes 
 was naturally proud, silent, and reserved, 
 overbearing and tyrannical at times, 
 but generous, quick to forgive, and 
 really good at heart. 
 
 Sira alone could make him smile as 
 she alone could make him laugh. His 
 whole heart was hers, and when he was 
 with her he reflected some of her 
 brightness as a deep mountain lake 
 reflects the sunlight; and when he left 
 her, he was like the lake again which, 
 when the light is gone, sinks back into 
 impenetrable blackness. 
 
 The Shah in Shah was dressed for the 
 banquet in royal robes of purple, 
 strewn with pearls and diamonds as 
 the sky is strewn with stars. Strings 
 of pearls as large as hazel-nuts were 
 twisted around his neck and on his 
 head rested the royal crown blazing 
 with jewels of enormous size and 
 lustre. 
 
 When he strolled in the outer apart- 
 ments of the palace six pages held his 
 train, but here it dragged carelessly on 
 18
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 the green marble floor. Even the 
 eunuchs were permitted to accompany 
 him no farther than the ante-chamber 
 of the favourite, for Chosroes laid 
 aside his state and came alone to visit 
 Sira. 
 
 When they were seated side by side 
 on the divan, Sira told the King of her 
 intended visit to the Egyptian, well 
 knowing that he would not oppose her 
 wishes. Chosroes, indeed, was pleased 
 that she had something to console her 
 for his absence. 
 
 " I have not seen Arsinoe since her 
 return," he said; "I must send for her 
 to-morrow. There is no one more 
 faithful to me than she or more useful 
 with her knowledge of magic and the 
 stars." 
 
 Sira was a Christian. During their 
 exile she had persuaded Chosroes to 
 beg the assistance of Saint Sergius of 
 Antioch, which he had done with the 
 most excellent result. But the Christ- 
 ianity of the seventh century was like 
 a muddy stream winding through a
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 low country, less a religion than a 
 superstition. 
 
 " Chosroes, " she said, " do you believe 
 implicitly in the arts of Arsinoe, her 
 power to tell the future?" 
 
 "Yes," replied the King, "one must. 
 She has already mastered one of the 
 greatest of the arts, the secret of eternal 
 youth. To look at her she seems not 
 more than twenty; and yet she was the 
 favourite of my father, Hormouz, before 
 I was born. Since nature has revealed 
 to her this great secret, it is not likely 
 that she has withheld the rest." 
 
 Sira's eyes sparkled. " I am very 
 glad that you speak so, " she said; " you 
 think, then, that I may trust her in 
 everything?" 
 
 " Yes," said Chosroes, "even as I do; 
 and I trust Arsinoe as I do you, my 
 heart's delight! 
 
 " Oh, Sira ! I have known distress and 
 exile; but you made them sweet, and 
 now that I have raised the throne of 
 Sassan to the summit of its glory, now 
 that power, wealth, and fame are mine, 
 20
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 and there is nothing that I have not, 
 your love is still the brightest jewel in 
 my crown. " 
 
 Poor Shah in Shah! Poor Chosroes, 
 King of Persia, the glory of the world 
 indeed is yours; but not the love of 
 Sira. And of the two women that you 
 trust, both are false! 
 
 When the King had left her, as he 
 did a few moments later, Sira threw 
 around her a dark mantle, and without 
 calling any of her slaves, who during 
 the visit of the King were collected in 
 the ante-chamber, left her apartments 
 by a marble staircase which descended 
 from one of the rooms into the garden. 
 There two eunuchs were waiting her 
 with a Chinese palanquin, into which 
 she stepped. The curtains were drawn, 
 and she was swiftly and silently trans- 
 ported through the flowering alleys and 
 sweetly perfumed groves to the little 
 palace of the Egyptian. There the 
 door was opened by two more eunuchs, 
 and she was admitted into a richly 
 21
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 decorated hall, where Arsinoe met her. 
 
 The Egyptian clasped the favourite 
 in her arms, and then led her up a 
 marble staircase, and through several 
 rooms, where Sira turned her head from 
 side to side to look at many things 
 which were not only rich and beautiful, 
 but strange: treasures of Greece and 
 Egypt, India, China, and Japan. 
 
 In the last room they stopped, and 
 Sira looked around her in wonder and 
 delight. This room indeed, if not the 
 result of enchantment, was a marvel 
 of the art of the extreme Orient. The 
 walls were hung all around with a 
 Chinese embroidery of birds and flowers 
 on yellow satin. The ceiling was gilded 
 and carved with an open work of carved 
 black teek, from which hung five 
 splendid Chinese lanterns of teek and 
 painted silk, lighted, and filling the 
 apartment with a soft radiance. The 
 floor was a mosaic of yellow and rose- 
 coloured marble. 
 
 At one end was a large window in a 
 teek- wood frame, whose embroidered 
 22
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 curtains were now closely drawn, and 
 at the other was the long low Persian 
 divan piled with Chinese cushions of 
 all colours embroidered in silk and gold. 
 Vases of Chinese porcelain filled with 
 roses alternated with carved and inlaid 
 cabinets, and in the centre stood a 
 wonderful table of gold lacquer. On 
 this table stood a magnificent carved 
 vase of jade, in which was growing a 
 strange plant with dark green leaves 
 and one great purple bud. 
 
 As Sira looked around her at all these 
 wonders, the Egyptian stood and looked 
 at her. Never had the favourite been 
 more beautiful. Her dress of trans- 
 parent gauze spangled with silver, 
 through which shimmered rose-coloured 
 silk, was clasped around her waist with 
 a girdle studded with diamonds, and 
 clasped at the bosom with a great 
 diamond star. Her white arms and 
 shoulders were bare even of jewels, but 
 a diamond circlet rested on her head, 
 and her hair flowed down behind her 
 like a golden veil. Rose-coloured and 
 2 3
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 ivory white, glittering with gold, silver, 
 and diamonds, Sira appeared like the 
 incarnation of the morning. 
 
 The Egyptian stood beside her, dark 
 and slender, as always, in dark blue 
 with a glimmer of silver, her black hair 
 falling like a shadow among all the splen- 
 dour. And she seemed like the incar- 
 nation of the night. In her hand she 
 held a silver serpent like a little sceptre ; 
 and with the other hand she took Sira's, 
 and led her to the table and showed her 
 the strange plant. 
 
 " You cannot learn to read the stars, " 
 she said, " but this you can read; and it 
 will prove to you that I tell you the 
 truth, and that I know. 
 
 "This is the flower of destiny." 
 
 With her silver serpent she touched 
 the purple bud, which opened and dis- 
 closed a single dewdrop like a great 
 round crystal, lying in its heart. 
 
 " Look, " she said, and Sira looked 
 into the crystal, and seemed to see 
 through it into another world. 
 
 First she saw mountains, forest clad, 
 24
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 and flowing through them a great river. 
 On its banks stood a rude village, and 
 children with yellow hair were playing 
 on the grass. Two black- haired men 
 appeared in strange garments; one of 
 them took one of the children by the 
 hand and led her away, and she knew 
 that the child was herself. 
 
 Next she saw a Greek garden in Con- 
 stantinople, and a dozen little girls sit- 
 ting in a row, while a man was teach- 
 ing them to play the lute, and one of 
 them was Sira. Then came a scene 
 which she remembered well. The pal- 
 ace of Modain, and her own presentation 
 to Chosroes. Other scenes followed : the 
 royal flight, the exile. She saw herself 
 passing through many vicissitudes, but 
 always by the side of Chosroes, a mother, 
 with the infant Siroes in her arms. And 
 then appeared once more the palace, 
 and Sira clad in silks and jewels, once 
 more a queen. 
 
 Then a wave seemed to overflow the 
 picture, and blot out everything; and 
 then came one image alone, that of 
 25
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 a youth so beautiful that Sira gazed 
 at him as if under the spell of enchant- 
 ment. But at that moment Arsinoe 
 touched the flower again, and it closed 
 once more into a bud; and Sira, raising 
 her eyes reluctantly, saw standing in 
 front of her the youth himself. 
 
 And as her eyes had hung upon the 
 picture, so much more they hung upon 
 the original; and she could only say 
 in a half whisper : " Arsinoe, am I 
 dreaming?" 
 
 " No, Sira, " said the Egyptian, " you 
 are awake. " 
 
 Ferhad, at that time just eighteen, 
 was in the first bloom of that wonderful 
 beauty which has made him famous in 
 Persian history and romance. 
 
 He was of medium height, slender 
 and graceful, with exquisite hands and 
 feet, and a noble head, covered with 
 short curls of blue-black hair, which 
 he held as if he wore a crown. His 
 skin was a clear pale olive, with a rose 
 flush in his cheeks, and his features 
 were of the purest Persian mould. His 
 26
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 eyebrows were so delicate and perfect 
 that they seemed as if traced with a 
 pencil, and his eyes, fringed with long 
 black lashes, were blue! His lips were 
 so red and beautiful, that they seemed 
 made only to be kissed, and his expres- 
 sion was both proud and sweet. 
 
 Ferhad was very simply clad, in the 
 old Persian costume, which strongly re- 
 sembled the fourteenth-century doublet 
 and hose his doublet, which fitted 
 him closely, being of ruby red edged 
 with a line of gold, and his hose 
 of soft undressed leather. His feet 
 were encased in red shoes, and he wore 
 nothing on his head, and no jewel 
 anywhere. 
 
 Sira moved a step or two nearer to 
 this new wonder. It seemed as if she 
 could not believe that he was real. 
 
 " Arsinoe, " she said in Greek without 
 turning her head, " will the red rub off 
 his lips?" 
 
 "Try," replied the Egyptian, and, 
 lifting the flower of destiny from the 
 table, she silently left the room. 
 27
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 Sira took another step forward and 
 another. 
 
 Ferhad did not move or speak, but 
 he looked at her with a smile so sweet 
 that Sira forgot she was a Christian. 
 She held out her arms toward him, 
 stepped up to him, and clasped her arms 
 round his neck. Then slowly she raised 
 her lips to his and kissed him. 
 
 The red did not rub off. Ferhad was 
 real. But a thrill like fire shot through 
 Sira's heart. She had had many kisses, 
 and royal ones, but never had she 
 known that a kiss could be so sweet. 
 
 A delicious shame overcame her. 
 She hid her face on Ferhad's shoulder, 
 and then she felt how he clasped her in 
 his arms and pressed her to him and 
 kissed her on the neck. 
 
 She trembled; thrills of fire ran 
 through her, and a strange sweet 
 languor stole over all her senses. She 
 forgot the existence of the King of 
 Persia. She forgot her child. There 
 seemed to her to be no one else left in 
 the world but herself and Ferhad. 
 28
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 In the banqueting hall of the palace, 
 hundreds of lamps hung from the gilded 
 ceiling. The marble columns were 
 twined with roses, and the long table 
 blazed with gold and silver, and glowed 
 with the bright colours of fruit and 
 flowers. And in his chair of state, sur- 
 rounded by the nobles of his Empire, 
 Chosroes sat like Belshazzar at the 
 feast. 
 
 This time there was no warning, no 
 writing on the wall. The King of 
 Persia looked around him, and thought 
 how now he stood on the pinnacle of 
 earthly happiness and glory. And with 
 that thought there came to him another 
 strangely clear and vivid, the memory 
 of his days of exile. For a moment it 
 hung upon him like a cloud upon the 
 mountain, and seemed to cut him off 
 from everything. But then he put it 
 from him saying in his heart, " Now, 
 all is well." 
 
 Oh, Chosroes! you too have been 
 weighed in the balance and found 
 wanting, and your days of exile were 
 29
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 better than those that are to come, 
 and which begin to-night. Then you 
 still had the future, now you have 
 nothing but the past! 
 
 The dawn flushed in the East when 
 Sira returned to the palace, and the 
 gardens glittered with dew as if strewn 
 with diamonds. 
 
 To Sira, as she looked out through 
 the curtains of her palanquin, the whole 
 world seemed changed. For years 
 pleasure, splendour, and renown had 
 been her portion; but now for the 
 first time in her life she had tasted of 
 happiness ! 
 
 Sira mounted her outside staircase, 
 and entered her bedroom from the 
 balcony. Here the rose-coloured cur- 
 tains were shut and the tapers in the 
 alabaster lamps were burnt out. In 
 the dim light she saw her favourite slaves 
 lying asleep on the thick carpet which 
 covered the floor; but she did not wake 
 them. At the end of her room her bed, 
 square canopied, and carved of massive 
 30
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 silver with rose-coloured curtains, stood 
 on a dais. For the first time since she 
 had been Queen of Persia, Sira undressed 
 herself, and slipping between her per- 
 fumed sheets, lost herself, but not her 
 sense of delight, in the sweetest sleep 
 she had ever known. 
 
 When she awoke the sun was high 
 in heaven. She did not move, but 
 looked around her with a new interest 
 in everything. The walls and ceiling 
 of the room were panelled with rose- 
 wood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, 
 which glimmered with rainbow colours. 
 All around the walls were carved and 
 inlaid chests which held her dresses and 
 jewels, and on each side of her bed 
 stood low round tables of ebony inlaid 
 with silver, on which stood all the arti- 
 cles of an Oriental toilet, made in gold 
 and silver and decked with precious 
 stones. It was indeed the chamber of 
 a queen. 
 
 For a few moments Sira remained 
 alone, and then her favourite, a Persian 
 girl named Mandane, entered the room
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 bearing a tray with bread and fruit and 
 wine. She approached the bed, and, 
 finding her mistress awake, arranged 
 her pillows that she might sit up and 
 take her breakfast. 
 
 "My lady," she said, "the Lady 
 Arsinoe is waiting till you are ready 
 to see her." 
 
 " Let her come to me at once, " said 
 Sira, and when the Egyptian appeared, 
 she dismissed the slave, and made 
 Arsinoe sit beside her on the bed. 
 
 "Well, Sira," said Arsinoe with her 
 strange smile, , " have I done well for 
 you or not?" 
 
 "Well," replied Sira, "more than 
 well, " and she took Arsinoe' s hands and 
 kissed them. " You have given me my 
 heart's desire." 
 
 "And what," asked the Egyptian, 
 " will you do for me in return?" 
 
 "Whatever you will, if it lies within 
 the power of Sira or of Chosroes. " 
 
 "Oh," said Arsinoe, "Chosroes is 
 not then quite forgotten. The King of 
 Persia has his uses still ? " 
 3 2
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 Sira blushed. "Tell me, Arsinoe," 
 she said, "what I can do for you?" 
 
 "Nothing," replied the Egyptian, 
 "nothing now; but perhaps some day 
 there will be something, and then I will 
 remind you of your promise." 
 
 Sira kissed her hands again. "I 
 owe you everything," she said; "and 
 now tell me about Ferhad. Where did 
 you find him, and who is he? Surely 
 a prince of royal blood?" 
 
 " Have you found that beauty is a 
 sign of royal blood?" 
 
 "Oh, not among the Sassanids, " said 
 Sira, " but the founder of their race was 
 a blacksmith; they are not really royal. 
 Ferhad may come from the Pishdanian 
 Kings or from the Princes of Sejestan." 
 The Egyptian laughed. " Four hundred 
 years of royalty are not enough for 
 Sira. No, Ferhad is a slave like your- 
 self. His mother was a dancing girl 
 of Ispahan, and his origin on the other 
 side is as dark as your own. " 
 
 Sira was silent for a moment, and then 
 asked where the Egyptian had found him. 
 
 3 33
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 " I bought him from a learned Das- 
 tur," she said "who came to consult 
 me about the study of the stars. He 
 had bought him from his mother when 
 he was a child, and taught him to read 
 and write, and made of him a secretary." 
 
 " I thought him too young and beauti- 
 ful for such dry work, so I brought him 
 to you. His destiny was evident to 
 me without the aid of the stars. ' ' 
 
 "A slave like myself," said Sira 
 slowly; "well, it is better so, for had he 
 been anything else, you could not have 
 brought him to me. O Arsinoe, I can 
 never repay you, nothing will be 
 enough. You have given me the one 
 thing I asked and longed for. You 
 have made my life complete. " 
 
 The Egyptian smiled. " Yes, " she 
 said, " now you have everything. Yours 
 is a brilliant destiny. " 
 
 Sira laughed. "Yes," she said, 
 "while it lasts. But now that I have 
 tasted of love and the real joy of life, 
 I will not complain of anything that 
 may come afterwards." 
 34
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 "You are right," said the Egyptian, 
 " one hour of perfect happiness is worth 
 a lifetime in which that hour is wanting." 
 Sira remained lost in thought for a 
 moment or two, and then asked : " When 
 shall I see Ferhad again?" 
 
 "Oh," said Arsinoe," it will take all 
 my art to arrange your meetings. This 
 afternoon Chosroes will be with you, 
 and morning is ffot the time for love; 
 but we must do as we can. You 
 shall see him at my house to-morrow 
 morning." 
 
 Then she explained to Sira the ar- 
 rangements of her household. Her 
 slaves, a dozen or more, were those who 
 had been given her by her royal lover, 
 Hormouz. They were now elderly 
 women; she alone remained young. 
 Her two eunuchs were elderly also, and 
 the only youthful inmate of her house 
 was her page, Ferhad. This indeed 
 was not in accordance with the Oriental 
 custom, though the Persian harem had 
 never been as strict as the Mohammedan 
 became; but Arsinoe was subject to no 
 35
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 rules, and came and went as she liked 
 and might have had a dozen pages 
 instead of one. 
 
 Sira wanted to talk about Ferhad, 
 but he had been so short a time with 
 the Egyptian, that there was not much 
 to tell. Arsinoe could only relate that 
 he was very much pleased with the 
 change in his life, and filled with delight 
 at the luxury and splendour of his new 
 surroundings, and that he showed 
 good taste and artistic appreciation of 
 the beautiful in both art and nature. 
 
 His duties as a page were merely 
 nominal, and he possessed the true 
 Oriental enjoyment of idleness combined 
 with a rare power of amusing himself. 
 
 "Now," concluded the Egyptian, 
 "I have given him, in giving him to 
 you, the one thing he lacked. This 
 morning he came to me, and thanked 
 me again as he has done several times 
 before, for buying him from the Dastur, 
 and told me with much sweetness and 
 grace, that now he was perfectly happy." 
 
 Sira clapped her hands in delight and 
 36
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 began to speak, when at that moment, 
 there ran into the room a child, dark, 
 not pretty, but most richly dressed, and 
 decked with jewels, Siroes, the heir of 
 Persia. He ran to Sira, and entwined 
 his arms around her neck and kissed 
 her. He had a passionate nature and 
 a violent temper, and often showed 
 himself haughty, overbearing, and un- 
 just; but he loved his mother. 
 
 " How old is Siroes now, " asked the 
 Egyptian; "this year that I have been 
 away there are some things that I 
 forget." 
 
 " Siroes is nine, " said Sira. 
 
 "Just half the age of your lover!" 
 said the Egyptian; "but it does not 
 matter. You belong to the Occident, 
 he to the Orient. You are young for 
 your age, and he is old for his; and for 
 that nothing matters when it is destiny." 
 
 The next morning Sira had herself 
 
 dressed in a robe of emerald green with 
 
 stripes of gold, and decked with pearls 
 
 and emeralds, and was carried in her 
 
 37
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 palanquin to the little palace in the 
 garden. Again Arsinoe received her 
 and led her to the Chinese room where 
 again she found Ferhad. The young 
 Persian seemed to her more beautiful, 
 more attractive than before. For the 
 first time in her life she doubted her 
 own beauty, because it seemed to her 
 less than his. This time he came to 
 meet her with his most radiant smile, 
 and Sira threw herself into his arms, 
 and they kissed each other to their 
 hearts' delight. 
 
 Sira was an intelligent, and, for her 
 time, a brilliant woman. She wished 
 to talk to her lover, and to know his 
 mind as well as his heart. Ferhad sus- 
 tained the ordeal very well. He was 
 naturally clever, and had been carefully 
 educated by his old master. 
 
 Sira was charmed by his brilliancy 
 as with his evident cultivation, and 
 found him as well versed as herself in 
 Persian literature and poetry. Greek 
 he did not speak, but Sira promised 
 him that she would tell him all that she 
 38
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 knew of the literature and poetry of 
 that glorious language. 
 
 His mind seemed to unfold for her 
 like a flower in the sunshine, and Sira 
 gazed at him in an intense delight, 
 thinking him the most perfect creature 
 in the world; her love for him growing 
 more passionate with every moment. 
 Suddenly she remembered what the 
 Egyptian had told her of his delight 
 in luxury and splendour. 
 
 " Ferhad, " she said, " do you care 
 for jewels?" 
 
 " Yes, " replied Ferhad, " I love them," 
 and he passed his fingers across the 
 emeralds on her arm. " You have 
 many, many diamonds, emeralds, 
 pearls. You are the favourite of the 
 King." 
 
 "And you have none," said Sira. 
 
 " No, I have never had one in my 
 life." 
 
 Sira quickly took from her third rin- 
 ger an Indian ring, diamonds in green 
 enamel, and slipped it on his little 
 ringer. Ferhad's eyes sparkled and he 
 
 39
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 flushed with pleasure. "Oh, Sira, do 
 you give this to me?" 
 
 " Yes, " said Sira, " that and every- 
 thing else that you may desire. The 
 Shah in Shah lays the wealth of his 
 Empire at my feet, and I will share it all 
 with you." 
 
 Ferhad thanked her with a kiss. 
 There was no more talk of anything 
 but love, and the time was all too short. 
 
 Sira the favourite of Chosroes now led 
 a new and (her conscience remaining 
 silent) perfectly happy life. The Shah 
 in Shah finding her bright with a new 
 brightness, and sweet with a strange 
 new charm, delighted in and loved her 
 more and more. And she sought to 
 please him more than ever; for now she 
 looked to him not for herself alone, 
 but for all she gave Ferhad. Her lover 
 liked jewels and rich garments, and 
 splendid arms (which indeed he never 
 used, since his life was confined within 
 the palace and garden of Arsinoe, but 
 with which he liked to play). And all 
 40
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 these, or the money with which she 
 bought them, came from Chosroes and 
 went to Ferhad. 
 
 It was not possible for Sira to see him 
 every day, but she went whenever she 
 could to the little palace where he, who 
 had nothing alse to do, was always 
 waiting for her. 
 
 Ferhad was an ideal lover. His dis- 
 position was naturally sweet, though 
 not lacking in fire. And his manner 
 was as gentle and tender as the heart 
 of woman could desire. But perhaps 
 what Sira loved in him the most was his 
 dignity, and the pride which made him 
 hold his head as if he wore a crown. 
 
 He kissed and caressed her to her 
 heart's delight, but never did he throw 
 himself at her feet or show her anything 
 approaching servile homage. Ferhad 
 knew his own power. He accepted the 
 favourite of Chosroes as no more than 
 his right. For her he was never the 
 slave but always the master. 
 
 Their interviews always took place 
 in the yellow salon in which they had
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 seen each other first; sometimes in the 
 morning, sometimes in the afternoon, 
 and, whenever Chosroes gave a banquet, 
 at night. 
 
 Sira's devotion to the Egyptian and 
 constant visits to her home created no 
 surprise. Arsinoe had always been her 
 chosen friend, and during the year of 
 her absence in Egypt the favourite 
 had loudly lamented her loss. And in 
 addition to this, Sira had always read 
 and studied, and now it created no 
 astonishment that she was studying, 
 as she gave out, the science of the stars. 
 
 Everything went happily; no sus- 
 picion clouded the mind of Chosroes, 
 or indeed of any one, and fortune 
 favoured in everything the love of Sira 
 and Ferhad. Days of joy succeeded 
 each other, and the Persian summer 
 with its great heat, its glory of sunlight, 
 and its wealth of roses, passed away 
 like a dream of delight. 
 
 In the end of September, just as the 
 nights were growing cooler, was the 
 birthday of Chosroes; and on this day, 
 42
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 in addition to all the fe'tes and cere- 
 monies in his own honour, it was always 
 the custom of the great King to make 
 some magnificent present to his fa- 
 vourite. A tender thought to let her 
 share his birthday since, being a slave, 
 she did not know her own! This year 
 his present was a pavilion containing 
 a bath which he had had built for her 
 at some distance from the palace in 
 the Royal Park in the midst of a grove 
 of sweet pines. 
 
 Here there was a crystal spring which 
 bubbled up in a natural basin of perhaps 
 fifteen feet in diameter and four or five 
 feet in depth. This basin had been 
 enclosed and paved around with ala- 
 baster, and a hexagonal pavilion whose 
 whole interior was of the same precious 
 material had been built over it, a pa- 
 vilion with no windows in its shining 
 walls, but crowned with a dome of 
 gilded fretwork and rose-coloured glass. 
 Around the walls of this apartment 
 ran a luxuriant divan, rugs were spread 
 on the translucent floor, inlaid tables 
 
 43
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 and vases of flowers stood carelessly 
 about; and in every panel of the hexagon 
 was a magnificent silver sconce filled 
 with wax lights. 
 
 In front of the bath was another 
 room or ante-chamber equally luxuri- 
 ous, and also light from the roof; and 
 the whole building made a splendid 
 and absolutely secluded retreat an 
 impregnable fortress of love. 
 
 Sira was delighted with this new ac- 
 quisition, and her first thought was to 
 share her delight with Ferhad. This 
 was not so easy, especially since Chos- 
 roes, pleased with the new toy, wished 
 to enjoy it himself. But fortune once 
 more showed herself the friend of the 
 lovers. The month of October arrived, 
 and the Shah in Shah, as was his custom, 
 for he dearly loved the chase, set out 
 with a tremendous retinue for a month's 
 hunting in the mountains of Kurdistan. 
 
 And now came the time of Sira's per- 
 fect happiness, the zenith of her life 
 and love. On the first day of the Shah 
 in Shah's departure, Arsinoe brought 
 44
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 Ferhad to the pavilion in the dress of 
 a female attendant and left him there; 
 and from that time, while the October 
 moon waxed and waned, the existence 
 of the King of Persia was forgotten; 
 and whether in the pavilion, the little 
 palace, or in the sweet pine grove, where 
 now they walked by sun or moon, the lov- 
 ers spent their days and nights together. 
 
 None surprised or even suspected their 
 secret. Perhaps Arsinoe helped with 
 her magic arts to close all curious eyes 
 and ears; but more likely it was only 
 destiny, which sometimes allows us to 
 pluck a rose before she shuts us out of 
 the garden of life forever. 
 
 At the end of the month Chosroes 
 returned to Artemita, and the dream 
 of love was over. After a month of 
 absence from his beloved, the King 
 could not bear her for a moment out of 
 his sight. When she went to her pa- 
 vilion, he accompanied her. Her visits 
 to Arsinoe became impossible, and thus 
 a whole week passed in which she did 
 not see her lover. 
 
 45
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 Ferhad, whose occupation was gone, 
 wearied himself so in the little palace, 
 that Arsinoe, for the first time, gave 
 him permission to go and amuse him- 
 self in the town and bazaars. Unwise 
 indulgence! Ferhad had occasionally 
 enjoyed this privilege in Ispahan, and 
 he knew the pleasures afforded by all 
 towns. He went to the bazaars and to 
 the wine shops where he met other young 
 men. All the veiled women in the 
 streets turned to look at him, and the 
 unveiled ones, the dancing girls, stopped 
 and talked with him, and tried to beguile 
 him with their charms, not knowing 
 that he was the lover of Sira, the fa- 
 vourite of Chosroes. And it all pleased 
 Ferhad and he amused himself very 
 well. 
 
 At last Sira was able to see him again 
 in the house of Arsinoe. She threw 
 herself into his arms, and he was en- 
 chanted to see her again ; but it was not 
 long before she learned that he had 
 found a new interest, for when she 
 asked him what she should give him 
 46
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 after their separation, he replied: 
 " Money to spend in the bazaars. " 
 
 "But," she said, "do I not give you 
 everything you want?" 
 
 " Yes, " he said, " but I like to buy 
 things for myself, to have money to 
 spend." 
 
 A chill presentiment of evil passed 
 through Sira's heart the thought that 
 he was going, and wished to go, some- 
 where where she could not follow. 
 She tried to dissuade him from this 
 new idea; but soon saw it was in vain, 
 and was too clever to persist. 
 
 "A young man cannot stay always 
 shut up in a harem like a girl," said 
 Per had; " I must go out and see a little 
 of the world outside." 
 
 And so the next day Sira brought 
 him money, and from that time he 
 went regularly and made friends with 
 other young men and bought himself 
 things, and sometimes watched the 
 dancing girls, and he brought little 
 presents to Sira, which delighted her 
 more than all the gifts of Chosroes. 
 47
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 They were bought with her own money, 
 indeed, but that was nothing, since he 
 might have spent it all on himself, and 
 instead, he thought of her. His visits 
 to the town never interfered with hers 
 to him; he never kept her waiting, and 
 so she reconciled herself to the idea 
 that a man must have an outside life. 
 The winter passed and it was spring 
 again. The sun grew hot and the 
 nightingales sang in the royal gardens. 
 
 The town of Artemita or Dastragerd, 
 for it went by both names, grew hot 
 and dusty, and the wine shops by the 
 river lost their charm. It was not a 
 real city after all; but merely a town 
 which had grown around the royal 
 residence. And Ferhad, having ex- 
 hausted all its pleasures, tired of it 
 and ceased to visit it at all. 
 
 Sira was delighted with this change, 
 and told herself that her lover's desire 
 for an outside life had been only a 
 passing fancy, and that he really cared 
 for nothing but to be with her. We 
 believe so readily what we want to 
 48
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 believe. And Ferhad was glad to be 
 with Sira, for he loved her; but he still 
 longed for an outside life, only not that 
 of Dastragerd, but the life of a great 
 city, such as Modain or Ctesiphon. 
 But as this he could not have, he shut 
 himself, this time voluntarily, within 
 the limits of the little palace and garden, 
 and once more devoted his whole time 
 to love. 
 
 The first month, the month of June, 
 was like a dream of Paradise. Ferhad 
 and Sira thought of nothing but each 
 other, and Ferhad consoled himself 
 for the loss of outside amusement with 
 the thought that he occupied a unique 
 position in being the lover of the beloved 
 of the great King of Persia. Only he 
 would have liked that the fact should 
 be known to the world, sweet im- 
 possibility, since his life would have 
 been the price of such renown. 
 
 As the summer grew hotter, Fer- 
 had 's temper showed itself less sweet. 
 Always imperious, he became now 
 capricious and hard to please. Some- 
 4 49
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 times he quarrelled with Sira, but the 
 quarrels were but short, for though the 
 fault was always his, Sira never failed 
 to throw herself at his feet and beg his 
 pardon. Whereupon he forgave and 
 restored to his favour her whose only 
 fault toward him was that she loved 
 him too much. 
 
 And so the summer passed, and again 
 the hunting season of the King ap- 
 proached. Sira was already revelling 
 in the thought of her month of liberty, 
 when suddenly one day Ferhad told 
 her that he wished to go in the train 
 of Chosroes to Kurdistan. 
 
 The shock was terrible. Sira could 
 only weep, and Ferhad was so moved 
 by her grief that he almost lost his 
 desire to go. He took her in his arms 
 and kissed her, and consoled her with 
 such tenderness and told her with so 
 much sweetness, that he only wished 
 to see a little of life that he might be 
 more worthy of her, that she consented 
 that he should go. 
 
 It was easily arranged. Arsinoe 
 5
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 recommended him as a young man in 
 whom she was interested to Chosroes, 
 who, carelessly concluding that he was 
 her son, gave him a place among his 
 immediate attendants for the hunting 
 month, since that was all he asked. 
 
 With many kisses the young Persian 
 parted from his lady, and started in 
 great delight in the train of the great 
 King, to see the world. But alas for 
 earthly hopes! From the moment in 
 which the eyes of Chosroes first rested 
 upon him, instinct seemed to inspire 
 the Shah in Shah with an intense 
 dislike of this most beautiful youth of 
 his Empire. 
 
 The frown of Kings means ruin. Try 
 as Ferhad could and did to please the 
 King, his royal master, nothing availed. 
 Chosroes slighted and found fault with 
 him on every occasion. The general 
 of course followed the royal disfavour, 
 and Ferhad's life became a burden. 
 But all things end, and so the month 
 of hunting ended, and Ferhad was re- 
 turned to his Egyptian mistress with 
 Si
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 the remark that he was too beautiful 
 to be of any use, and the advice to 
 keep him henceforth where he belonged, 
 in the harem. 
 
 Arsinoe received him back with pleas- 
 ure, and Ferhad, who had now learned 
 how well off he had been and who had 
 lost all fancy for the world, embraced 
 her as if she had been indeed his mother, 
 and thanked her once more for all that 
 she had done for him. And then he 
 threw himself into the arms of Sira and 
 told her that he had never known how 
 much he loved her before and that he 
 would never leave her again. Sira 
 felt herself more than repaid for the 
 sacrifice that she had made, and perfect 
 happiness was now restored. 
 
 Again it was spring, spring of the 
 year 621, the year before the Hejira. 
 
 The war indemnity which Chosroes 
 had claimed from the Romans had never 
 been paid, owing to the impoverished 
 state of the Empire. And now the 
 Shah in Shah received secret informa- 
 52
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 tion that Heraclius was at last amassing 
 the treasure indeed; not for tribute, 
 but for the purpose of making a new 
 war in hopes of winning back his lost 
 provinces and reconstructing the Roman 
 Empire. 
 
 Chosroes received the news with 
 strange misgivings. The night before 
 he had had a dream in which he had 
 seen himself crowned and seated on his 
 throne, when suddenly Heraclius strode 
 into his presence, tore the diadem from 
 his brow, and hurled him from the 
 throne. 
 
 A presentiment of evil such as he had 
 felt at the banquet two years before 
 overcame him, and in a sudden haste 
 to know the worst, he called for his 
 litter, and had himself carried to the 
 house of the Egyptian, Arsinoe. 
 
 His arrival, so sudden and uncere- 
 monious, would have struck terror to 
 the heart of any woman less wise; but 
 happily Sira was not there, and as Ar- 
 sinoe received the King, she saw at once 
 that he had come to her not as an 
 53
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 accuser, but as one who sought her aid. 
 Dismissing all his attendants, he asked 
 her to lead him to her most private 
 apartment, where they could converse 
 undisturbed. And, by the irony of 
 fate, the Egyptian took him to the 
 Chinese apartment, which, for the last 
 two years, had been the scene of the 
 love of Sira and Ferhad. 
 
 Here Chosroes told her of his dream 
 and of the news he had received. Ar- 
 sinoe looked very grave. The stars she 
 said had given her no warning, but they 
 were slow and silent at the best, and she 
 had a quicker means. 
 
 Praying the King to excuse her ab- 
 sence for a moment, she left the room, 
 returning presently with her silver ser- 
 pent in her hand, and followed by Ferhad 
 bearing the flower of destiny, which 
 he placed upon the table and made a 
 low and graceful obeisance to the 
 King. Chosroes looked with a haughty 
 stare at the young man, who, though a 
 slave, wore a costume rich enough for 
 a prince, and glittered with jewels, and 
 54
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 whose beauty was more wonderful than 
 it had been when he first appeared at 
 Artemita. 
 
 "Oh," said the King, "my sometime 
 page. Tell me, Arsinoe, is he your son 
 or your lover?" 
 
 " Neither, great King, " replied the 
 Egyptian. 
 
 "Then," said Chosroes, "why do you 
 lavish such wealth upon him?" 
 
 "Oh, Shah in Shah," said Arsinoe, 
 with a strange smile, "if you would 
 know my secrets, you must learn to 
 read the stars." 
 
 " Nay, " said the King, " keep your 
 secrets, but this youth I think, costs 
 you a great deal more than he is worth." 
 
 He looked at Ferhad, on whom all 
 other eyes rested with delight, with a 
 mixture of royal insolence, dislike, 
 and scorn. 
 
 And Ferhad looked at the King, and 
 longed to tell him that his jewels were 
 the gifts of Sira, that he held her in 
 his arms and kissed her every day in 
 this very room, and that she had given 
 55
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 him not jewels and kisses only, but 
 that heart which the King thought his. 
 For a moment it almost seemed as if 
 he would speak; but life is sweet and, 
 following a sign from his mistress, he 
 made another obeisance and withdrew. 
 
 Then Arsinoe turned to Chosroes, 
 and asked what question he wished to 
 put to the flower of destiny. The King 
 thought for a moment and then said: 
 " I would like to know who is the great- 
 est man who lives, and who will leave 
 the greatest name in history? Is it 
 Chosroes or is it Heraclius?" 
 
 Arsinoe spoke some words in a strange 
 language and, touching the flower of 
 destiny with her serpent, it opened, 
 disclosing the great dewdrop in its heart. 
 
 " Look, " she said, and Chosroes, 
 leaning over the strange plant, looked 
 into the crystal. There he saw a 
 picture of the desert; the deep blue 
 sky bending over the red sand. And 
 under a red rock sat a man in a dress of 
 camel's hair with a face such in beauty 
 and power as the King of Persia had 
 56
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 never seen. His black eyes seemed to 
 the King to look him through and 
 through, and then to pass him by with 
 a gaze which looked beyond "all time 
 into eternity." Chosroes drew back 
 with a sensation that was almost fear, 
 and once more the flower of destiny 
 closed into a bud. 
 
 "But," said the King, "I asked for 
 the greatest man. This is neither 
 Heraclius nor myself." 
 
 "No," said Arsinoe, "neither the 
 Shah in Shah, nor yet the Emperor, 
 but still the greatest man on earth, 
 Mohammed." 
 
 "What!" cried the King, "the mad 
 Arab? Impossible! I had but lately 
 heard that he was forsaken even by his 
 own tribe of the Koresh and driven 
 from Mecca, and that he, with a handful 
 of adherents, was hiding in the desert, 
 hunted like wild beasts." 
 
 "True," replied Arsinoe, "this is 
 his darkest hour; but one year more, 
 and all will change, one year more, and 
 Mohammed will be Lord of Arabia." 
 57
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 "And what," said Chosroes slowly, 
 " has this to do with me?" 
 
 " Much, " replied the sorceress. " Chos- 
 roes, King of Persia, you have done 
 much that was great and glorious. 
 You have raised the throne of Sassan 
 to the summit of earthly power. But 
 you have made one mistake which will 
 outweigh all. You have torn the letter 
 of Mohammed, and when word of that 
 was carried back to him the prophet 
 said : '' It is thus that God will tear the 
 kingdom of Persia, and disregard the 
 supplications of Chosroes." 
 
 Another year passed, and there seemed 
 to be no change in the general conditions 
 of life in the palace of Artemita. Chos- 
 roes was still at the height of his glory, 
 and Sira at the height of her beauty, 
 though as far as she knew her age, she 
 was entering her twenty-ninth year. 
 Siroes her son, the heir of Persia, was 
 now twelve years old; a strange child, 
 the disagreeable traits of whose char- 
 acter grew with his age. For the last 
 58
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 three years Sira had neglected him, 
 being absorbed with Ferhad; but the 
 young prince was not allowed to miss 
 her, for there were too many at his 
 father's court anxious to fill her place, 
 and gain the influence that had been 
 hers. And Siroes now learned many 
 lessons which afterwards bore bitter 
 fruit. 
 
 Sira was perfectly happy in this 
 year, for now Ferhad seemed to have 
 no other thought but her. The truth 
 was that he had renounced the outside 
 world, because he saw that the ani- 
 mosity of Chosroes barred for him 
 every path to advancement there. He 
 loved Sira, and enjoyed the luxury and 
 ease of his life ; and though its monotony 
 and inactivity were not what he desired, 
 he had wisely determined to make the 
 best of what he had. And if ambition 
 was not permitted him, nor indepen- 
 dence, surely no one in the history of 
 the East had been more fortunate in 
 love. 
 
 History relates that Sira was a Christ- 
 59
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 ian. Had her religion, then, no power 
 with her, or had she, who had both mind 
 and heart, no conscience, that she led 
 this life of deception, without either 
 hesitation or regret? Perhaps neither. 
 Sira was a woman with whom love is a 
 passion that excludes all other thoughts, 
 and to whom regret comes only when 
 love is no more. 
 
 And it is doubtful if her religion was 
 more to her than a name. In the 
 harem of the King of Persia, she could 
 have no chapel, and no priest, and not 
 even the comfort of telling her beads, 
 since the rosary was not known, being 
 only borrowed from the Moslems during 
 the Crusades. 
 
 She prayed perhaps, but we must 
 remember that she had but little light. 
 The Christianity of the seventh century 
 was a pale and cloudy star, beside the 
 setting sun of the great Persian religion, 
 still beautiful and bright in its decline, 
 or the new moon of the Islam just rising 
 white and glorious in the East. 
 
 Thus the third year of the loves of 
 60
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 Ferhad and Sira drew to its close, which 
 always seemed a new beginning, since 
 their year ended in the month of May. 
 And this year was, though they knew 
 it not, one of the great years of time. 
 The year of the Hejira! 
 
 With the spring the war between 
 Rome and Persia broke forth again, 
 but this time all was changed, and the 
 world saw with amazement that Chos- 
 roes was not invincible, and that once 
 more a hero and a genius was seated 
 on the throne of Constantine. 
 
 Heraclius crossed the Black Sea, made 
 his way through the wild mountains 
 of Armenia, and appeared suddenly, 
 flushed with success, in the heart of 
 Persia. The Persians, who with the 
 Avars had threatened Constantinople 
 itself, were recalled to the defence of 
 their own country. Chosroes himself, 
 struck with an unexplainable aversion 
 to trust to the fortunes of a battle, 
 retreated with forty thousand men, 
 leaving to Heraclius the fruits of 
 almost bloodless victory, and shut 
 61
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 himself up once more in Artemita, while 
 the Romans encamped for the winter 
 at their ease in the heart of his 
 Empire. 
 
 And while all this was going on, 
 Mohammed, with a few followers, had 
 slipped through the hands of his 
 enemies and reached Medina, where he 
 was received and established as tem- 
 poral sovereign and Prophet of God. 
 His flight inaugurated a new era of 
 time. 
 
 Chosroes returned to Artemita in a 
 black mood, which even the smiles 
 of Sira could not charm away. Sira, 
 more radiant than ever, with the joy 
 of days and weeks spent alone with her 
 lover. It was the ninth of November. 
 Cold winds swept down from the 
 mountains; the sunlight paled, and in 
 the royal gardens the nightingales were 
 silent, and the roses all dead. 
 
 The heart of Chosroes was very heavy. 
 Many times a day he said to himself: 
 "The mad Arab is Prince of Medina 
 62
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 and Heraclius sits in the plains of 
 Mogan, and has put out the sacred fires 
 in the temples of Ormia." 
 
 He remembered with strange dis- 
 tinctness, how he had torn the letter 
 of Mohammed, and day and night the 
 words of the prophecy rang in his 
 ears: "It is thus that God will tear the 
 kingdom of Persia, and disregard the 
 supplications of Chosroes." 
 
 One dreary rainy day, when the 
 palace of Artemita seemed cold and 
 dark, and the very jewels, which en- 
 crusted the walls of his cabinet, ceased 
 to glitter, Chosroes had sent for Arsinoe, 
 the Egyptian, and sat amid dim splen- 
 dours, and surrounded by a score of his 
 highest officers, in silence awaiting 
 her coming. At length the portiere 
 which closed the only entrance to the 
 room was lifted; but instead of the 
 Egyptian, there appeared a young man 
 whose beauty seemed to shed a light 
 around him, and whose many jewels 
 glittered as the royal ones did not. 
 He appeared a vision of sudden bright- 
 63
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 ness like a rising star at twilight. It 
 was Ferhad. 
 
 In his hand he held a small roll of 
 parchment which, walking forward and 
 making a low obeisance, he presented 
 to the King. Chosroes looked at him 
 with a black frown, took the roll, and 
 opening it, read: 
 
 "Oh, Shah in Shah, command not 
 my presence to-day. The stars are 
 unpropitious, and I can bring you no- 
 thing but bad news. 
 
 "ARSINOE." 
 
 At this, the King of Persia fell into 
 an unaccountable rage, that rage which 
 seeks a victim. 
 
 "Slave," he said to Ferhad, "how 
 dare you bring me such an answer?" 
 
 " Shah in Shah, " replied Ferhad with 
 perfect dignity, "the answer is not 
 mine." 
 
 "What," cried Chosroes, with that 
 injustice which he sometimes showed, 
 " you presume to bandy words with the 
 64
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 King of Persia? I will teach you that 
 a slave should be silent in the presence 
 of his Master." And drawing a dagger 
 from his belt, he struck Ferhad with 
 the heavy jewelled hilt across his face. 
 
 The young Persian started back, 
 turning pale with a rage quite equal to 
 the King's. His hand sought his own 
 dagger, and for an instant it seemed as 
 if he would return the insult he had 
 received with death. But then he 
 remembered everything, and falling on 
 his knees, he touched the carpet with 
 his forehead, and rising, walked back- 
 wards with perfect calmness out of the 
 royal cabinet. 
 
 His self-control was perfect, but once 
 outside and out of hearing, he stretched 
 forth his right hand, and called down 
 upon the King of Persia, the great 
 Mazda Yacna curse. Nor did this 
 curse so dreaded by the Persians, 
 content the wounded pride and honour 
 of Ferhad. He returned to Arsinoe, 
 and, reproaching her bitterly for having 
 sent him on such an errand, related
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 his wrongs with a passion such as he 
 had never shown before and which 
 fairly surprised the Egyptian. 
 
 Arsinoe told him to have patience, to 
 I say nothing to Sira, and showed him 
 that his only hope of satisfaction was 
 to await the course of destiny. And 
 Ferhad took her advice, but the blow 
 given him by the King of Persia, 
 though its marks soon left his face, 
 had left a scar in his heart and given 
 him a new motive in life : Revenge. 
 
 We have already lingered too long 
 over the love of Ferhad and Sira; 
 but alas, the joys of love and life are 
 so rare that one turns from them with 
 regret, even when they are forbidden 
 fruit. And the recollection (if indeed 
 it ever leaves us) returns always too 
 soon, that "the wages of sin is death." 
 
 Another winter passed, in which the 
 palace of Artemita seemed to sleep, 
 and Ferhad and Sira were the only ones 
 who lived; and another summer, in 
 which Heraclius was everywhere vic- 
 66
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 torious. In vain Chosroes recalled his 
 forces from the Bosphorus and the Nile. 
 Nothing could stem the tide of Roman 
 conquest, and the Persians were obliged 
 to retreat before the invaders, as before 
 the rising waves of a resistless sea. 
 Chosroes had torn the letter of Mo- 
 hammed, and God was tearing the 
 kingdom of Persia. 
 
 All this time Ferhad nursed his 
 revenge and rejoiced in the misfortune 
 of Chosroes; but more than this, he had 
 a plan. He still loved the favourite of 
 the King of Persia, and spent with her 
 all the time that she could give, and 
 made her perfectly happy, with no 
 thought that there remained a future. 
 But he had determined to live for him- 
 self. For this end he had engaged a 
 master to teach him riding and the 
 use of arms; and when he could absent 
 himself from the palace without the 
 knowledge of Sira or Arsinoe, he prac- 
 tised with a new passion the arts of 
 war. 
 
 Another winter came and went, and 
 6?
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 the return of spring ushered in a third 
 campaign. Chosroes himself set out 
 at the head of his army to meet Her- 
 aclius. Ferhad and Sira remained be- 
 hind. Sira's five years of love and 
 happiness had made her strong and 
 confident. She looked for no reverse. 
 It made no difference to her which 
 conquered, Rome or Persia; but she 
 loved the war because it left her alone 
 with Ferhad. Once more, as years 
 before, they retired to the pavilion 
 in the pine grove, and lived in a dream 
 of love, which was to be their last. 
 
 Bad news came from the seat of war. 
 Heraclius traversed in seven days the 
 mountains of Kurdistan, and crossed 
 the Tigris and then the Euphrates. 
 The Persians retreated before him, and 
 made their last stand on the banks of 
 the Sarus, a rapid river, three hundred 
 feet in breadth, whose single bridge was 
 strongly fortified. The flowers of May 
 bloomed in the gardens of Artemita, 
 and the nightingales sang in the pines. 
 And one day the news was brought to 
 68
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 Sira that the Romans had stormed the 
 bridge and crossed the river. 
 
 Ferhad left her for an hour or two 
 to learn the news ; and during his absence 
 Sira sent and begged Arsinoe to bring 
 her the flower of destiny. The flower 
 was brought and placed on a little table 
 in the room which contained the pool; 
 but Arsinoe sent word that she could 
 not come until evening, and Sira sat 
 and looked in vain at the purple bud, 
 which remained closed and impene- 
 trable. 
 
 At length Ferhad returned. He had 
 heard all, and his resolution was taken. 
 He went to Sira, and took her in his 
 arms and kissed her with his wonted 
 tenderness, and she clasped her arms 
 about his neck, and clung to him as a 
 vine clings to a palm. 
 
 And then he said to her: "Sira, the 
 time has come when I must leave you, 
 I have loved you, and I love you still; 
 but when I came here I was a boy, and 
 now I am a man. I have given you 
 my best and most beautiful years; 
 69
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 but Sira, I have my own life to 
 live." 
 
 Sira drew back and looked at him 
 surprised, but not believing him in 
 earnest. 
 
 "What life, would you live without 
 me. You who are my life?" 
 
 " I will be a soldier, " replied Ferhad. 
 
 " A soldier, " repeated Sira, " to fight 
 for Chosroes?" 
 
 " No, " cried Ferhad, his long silent 
 passion bursting into flame, "for 
 Heraclius. " 
 
 "Against the King of Persia! The 
 man who has denied me all chance of 
 advancement, who has insulted me and 
 struck me in the face!" 
 
 " No, " exclaimed Sira, horror-stricken 
 "surely not that!" 
 
 "Yes," said Ferhad, "but now my 
 hour has come. I go to join the army 
 of Heraclius, where at last I may be 
 a man." 
 
 " And for that, " said Sira, " you 
 would leave me!" 
 
 "I must," replied Ferhad, and again 
 70
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 he took her in his arms and kissed her, 
 and tried to make her listen to what he 
 thought reason. But Sira could not 
 listen. She tried first to persuade him 
 from his purpose, then at least to wait. 
 In vain; Ferhad was firm, he grew 
 impatient. She reproached him, up- 
 braided him with his ingratitude. Then 
 once more, sought to move his pity, 
 reminding him of all their love and all 
 their happy days. But still in vain. 
 She appealed to him in the words all 
 women use who try to hold their lovers 
 when they are no longer to be held. 
 In her despair, seeing all her efforts 
 useless, she called upon Christ and His 
 Mother to help her, Christ and His 
 Mother, whom she had forgotten for so 
 long. 
 
 But no divine assistance came to 
 her. Heaven was silent. Ferhad grew 
 angry. He replied to her; but not in 
 words of love. He showed himself 
 selfish, cruel, and unmindful of the past. 
 He had had the love of Sira, Sira the 
 most beautiful and brilliant woman of
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 the Persian Empire; that love which 
 Chosroes, the Shah in Shah had to win. 
 And now that he wanted it no longer, 
 he flung it aside as lightly as though it 
 were the fancy of a dancing girl. He 
 had had the love, the jewels, the money, 
 and now he wanted something else 
 instead. 
 
 In a last access of despair, she clung 
 to him as if force could hold him where 
 persuasion failed. But Ferhad was 
 tired of the scene, and with a sudden 
 brutality he unclasped her arms, and 
 flung her from him with such violence 
 that she staggered back against the 
 table on which stood the flower of 
 destiny, and overturned it on the floor. 
 The jade vase fell with a crash and 
 splintered into fragments, and the pur- 
 ple flower opening of itself, threw forth 
 the magic crystal which broke into a 
 thousand dewdrops and fell sparkling 
 on the alabaster pavement like a shower 
 of tears. 
 
 They both stood and looked in horror 
 at the ruin. Ferhad, in superstitious 
 72
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 dread, and Sira with the sudden memory 
 that when she had looked into the 
 crystal she had seen all her life before 
 the image of Ferhad, and nothing 
 afterwards. And she knew that this 
 was the end of everything. 
 
 " Ferhad," she said, with the calmness 
 of despair, " I have loved you too much." 
 
 It was the truth, and perhaps for 
 that reason Ferhad was moved to 
 momentary pity. Once more he came 
 to her, and took her in his arms, and 
 kissed her, for the last time. Then, 
 feeling that if he lingered, his resolution 
 would be shaken, he tore himself from 
 her and walked, without another look, 
 towards the door. 
 
 Sira took one step after him. " Fer- 
 had, " she said, "oh, do not leave me 
 Ferhad! Ferhad!" 
 
 But he did not answer. The por- 
 tiere dropped behind him, and Sira fell 
 with outstretched arms face downwards 
 on the pavement among the tears of 
 destiny. 
 
 Hours passed. The sun set, and the 
 
 73
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 spring night came down as softly as a 
 bridal veil. One by one the stars came 
 out in the deep blue and the nightin- 
 gales sang in the pines, but there was 
 no moon. Sira still lay where she had 
 fallen, her face pressed against the 
 alabaster pavement. She was not dead 
 or even unconscious, but her heart was 
 broken. Midnight drew near, and at 
 last the silence was stirred by a footstep 
 which crossed the ante-chamber. The 
 portiere was lifted, and a woman en- 
 tered, holding a lamp above her head. 
 It was Arsinoe. 
 
 The light fell upon Sira, and upon 
 the broken flower of destiny, the green 
 splinters of jade and the tears which 
 still sparkled, each one round and 
 perfect on the shining alabaster. 
 
 Arsinoe drew back in horror. " Sira," 
 she cried, "what has happened, what 
 means all this?" 
 
 Sira raised herself slowly on one 
 elbow. " Ferhad has left me, " she 
 said. 
 
 There was a silence, and then she 
 74
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 went on, " I have loved him too much. 
 If he was angry with me or out of 
 humour, it was I who begged his for- 
 giveness. I lived only to please him. 
 I threw myself at his feet. I gave him 
 jewels, money, everything that his 
 heart desired. For him I was untrue 
 to Chosroes. For him I forgot my 
 child, and now, now, Arsinoe, you know 
 everything. Did you know that it 
 would end like this?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Arsinoe, "but you 
 told me Sira that if you could taste of 
 love and happiness, you would not 
 complain of anything that might come 
 afterwards. You have had your heart's 
 desire, and it has lasted five years. Sira, 
 I have lived long, and I know that 
 woman is not born for happiness. You 
 have had more than your share." 
 
 Sira raised herself to a sitting posture, 
 and looked in silence at the Egyptian. 
 "Arsinoe," she said at last, "must I 
 live? Is there anything more in life 
 forme?" 
 
 "Yes," replied the Egyptian, "I 
 
 75
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 came to tell you that Chosroes has re- 
 turned with the remnant of his army. 
 Heraclius is close behind him, and he 
 cannot stay at Artemita. " 
 
 "Chosroes at Artemita, and he has 
 not sent for me. " 
 
 " No, he has shut himself in his 
 cabinet, and sits there alone. " 
 
 Sira remained silent for a few mo- 
 ments, a struggle going on in her 
 heart, as between life and death. Then 
 she rose pale as the moonless night but 
 fixed in her resolution. 
 
 " I will go to him, " she said. 
 
 " I will go with you, " replied Arsinoe, 
 and they left the pavilion together. 
 
 Chosroes sat alone in his cabinet, 
 whose walls gleamed with gold and 
 jewels. Midnight was past, and the 
 lamps flickered and burned pale, but 
 the great King thought not of sleep. 
 
 The darkest hour was come. The 
 strange flower which had held the for- 
 tunes of the house of Sassan lay shat- 
 tered in the pavilion among the pines, 
 and Mohammed was avenged. The 
 76
 
 The Flower of Destiny 
 
 portiere was lifted, and two women 
 entered, Arsinoe and Sira. The latter 
 went to him, and laid her hand upon 
 his shoulder, and only then the Shah 
 in Shah looked up. 
 
 "Why have you come to me?" he 
 asked, "all is lost. God has torn the 
 kingdom of Persia. Chosroes sits to- 
 night in Artemita; Heraclius will sit 
 here to-morrow." 
 
 " I have come, " answered Sira, " to 
 go with you once more into exile!" J 
 
 See Appendix I. 
 
 77
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 79
 
 THE LAST OF THE FATIMITES 
 
 IT was early spring in the land of 
 Egypt in the year 1171. The Nile 
 was low, the air soft and sweet, and in 
 the history of the country there was 
 that hush, which is the prelude of great 
 events, a dimness and uncertainty like 
 that of the dawn which follows the night 
 and precedes the rising sun. 
 
 Egypt had once more been conquered. 
 This time by the great Turkish Sultan 
 (of his dynasty the first and last) 
 Noureddin the Just. The Franks had 
 been driven from the country and were 
 making a last feeble and wavering 
 stand in their kingdom of Jerusalem, 
 which was soon to return to the sceptre 
 of its natural Lord, the Turk. 
 
 The blood and treasure spent in the 
 First Crusades had been shed and wasted 
 all in vain. In a few years more the 
 6 81
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 last Frank would be driven from Pales- 
 tine, and only through the pity and 
 magnanimity of the Sultan, would the 
 pilgrims continue to visit the Holy 
 Sepulchre, which, since the Christians 
 had proved themselves unworthy to be 
 its guardians, it would please God to 
 give back to Islam . 
 
 In Egypt the last Fatimite Khalif, 
 Adhed, had expired in his palace in 
 Cairo, silently and unheeded by the 
 world, as he had lived. The green 
 livery of the house of AH was changed 
 for the black of the Abbassides; the 
 Khalif Mosthadi of Bagdad was ac- 
 knowledged as the true commander 
 of the faithful, and the Emir Shiracouh 
 governed Egypt in the name of Nou 
 reddin, unconsciously, awaiting the hero, 
 who was to succeed them both, and to 
 unite under his sceptre the realms of 
 Egypt, Arabia, Syria, and Palestine. 
 
 The Emir AH Amr governor of Upper 
 
 Egypt from the first to the second 
 
 cataract and related to the Fatimites, 
 
 through the female line, had remained 
 
 82
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 (being a powerful favourite with the 
 Egyptians themselves, and to that 
 perhaps owing the Sultan's grace) in 
 his position under the beginning of 
 Turkish rule. At the death of the 
 Khalif he had been summoned to 
 Cairo, but so far from any evil awaiting 
 him there, he had been received with 
 open arms by Shiracouh, confirmed in 
 his office, and was now returning, 
 loaded with presents and assurances 
 of friendship, to the seat of his govern- 
 ment at Assouan. 
 
 For several days he had been looked 
 for, and the Princess Rikaiya, his wife, 
 had sat in the latticed bow of her western 
 window, watching for the first glimpse 
 of his boat upon the Nile. The Princess 
 Rikaiya was the daughter of the Sultan 
 of Yemen. A little more than three 
 years ago, the Emir Ali Amr had been 
 sent to that country as the Khalif 's 
 Ambassador, and had brought her back, 
 then a girl of thirteen, as his bride. 
 
 Ali Amr himself, in the flower of youth, 
 though perhaps ten years older than his 
 83
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 wife, had attained that early eminence 
 so common in the East, where nothing 
 is beyond the hope and fire of youth; 
 handsome in his person and royal in 
 his bearing as in his birth, the Arab 
 Princess had given him from the first 
 not her hand only but her heart. 
 
 He had loved her also with all the 
 passion of his race for she was beautiful 
 with that dark noble beauty of the pure 
 Arab blood. The long black eyes, 
 red pomegranate lips, the high-bred 
 features, and the wealth of jet black 
 hair, slender and graceful and thorough- 
 bred, she needed no diadem to prove 
 herself a princess. 
 
 No children had been given them, 
 but this was less felt by the Emir, since 
 he had by a former wife, who had given 
 her life for his, a son now six years old; 
 and the marriage was as ideally happy 
 as any which the Oriental poets have 
 sung. 
 
 The Princess Rikaiya sat watching 
 in her window, robed in rich garments, 
 bright hued and embroidered in gold 
 84
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 and glittering with jewels, diamonds, 
 rubies, and pearls. She was hourly 
 expecting her husband, and would meet 
 him once more like a bride. At her 
 feet sat her two favourite slaves, two 
 Arab girls, whom she had brought 
 with her from Yemen, and who were 
 her constant companions; Amina and 
 Fatima. Amina held a lute and Fatima 
 a tambourine; but both were silent, 
 for the Princess did not listen to their 
 music, but only gazed out of the window 
 and down the river. 
 
 The room in which they sat was gayly 
 painted and gilded in arabesques; five 
 enamelled glass lanterns hung from the 
 ceiling by gilded chains, and the usual 
 Oriental furniture of rugs and cushions 
 was supplemented by an inlaid table and 
 two low chairs of Greek workmanship. 
 
 Suddenly the Princess uttered a cry, 
 and, forgetting everything else in the 
 excitement of the moment, she threw 
 open the lattice and leaned out. 
 
 "A sail! A sail! The Emir's boat!" 
 
 % 
 
 The setting sun glanced on the diamonds 
 85
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 of her tiara, kissed her rose-hued cheek, 
 and warmed the whiteness of her bosom, 
 and the crimson of her vest. But for 
 a moment; then she closed her lattice 
 remembering herself a Princess, and sat 
 still to wait her Lord's return. 
 
 The time passed slowly, and ere the 
 noise and bustle in the courtyard an- 
 nounced the return of the Emir, evening 
 had fallen and the lamps were lit. Then 
 the Princess rose and, followed by her 
 attendants, passed into the first salon 
 of the harem to meet her husband. 
 
 Nor had she long to wait; the portiere 
 was lifted and preceded by half a dozen 
 eunuchs, all jet black and in the richest 
 attire, the Emir Ali Amr once more 
 entered the sanctuary of his home. 
 With a rustling of soft garments and a 
 silence of bare feet, the other women 
 slaves had crowded into the room, 
 and as the Fatimite Prince crossed the 
 threshold, tall and handsome, the royal 
 aigrette glittering in his turban and the 
 jewelled sword hanging by his side, they 
 all fell upon their knees and saluted 
 86
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 him by touching their foreheads to the 
 ground. 
 
 But his wife Rikaiya, the daughter 
 of a Sultan, stood erect, looked at him 
 for one moment in silence, her soul in 
 her eyes, and then threw herself into 
 his arms. The Emir pressed her to his 
 heart and kissed her with a rapture 
 which seemed to equal hers and, then 
 releasing her said with a wave of his 
 hand towards the eunuchs, who bore 
 varied boxes and caskets, " Princess, I 
 lay at your feet the treasures given me 
 by Shiracouh." 
 
 Rikaiya looked on one side and the 
 other, and saw for the first time behind 
 her husband two female figures. One 
 a negress gaudy with shells and beads 
 and silver trinkets over her dark 
 Egyptian dress, and the other still 
 covered with a veil which she was 
 beginning to unwind. 
 
 "Who are these?" she asked. 
 
 "Slaves," replied the Emir, "given 
 me by Shiracouh." And in spite of her- 
 self, the Princess fancied a tone that 
 87
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 was strange in his voice. At that 
 moment, the new slave unwound herself 
 and her veil fell off and left her hair 
 uncovered in the full light of the lamps. 
 The Princess gazed at her in wonder; 
 never before had she seen a creature 
 of her like. Reared in Arabia and from 
 there transported to the Nile, she knew 
 only the black eyes and black locks of 
 the Orient; and now she saw hair like 
 spun gold that glittered and rippled and 
 fell in a bright disorder like the cataract 
 itself. She beheld a skin so white that 
 beside it her own cream tint seemed 
 dark, cheeks like twin roses, and eyes 
 not black or brown like all other eyes, 
 but blue, blue as the sea. 
 
 Jealousy was a sentiment unknown 
 to Rikaiya; she had had no rival. 
 "My Lord!" she exclaimed, "you have 
 brought home a peri!" 
 
 The Emir smiled. " No, " he said, 
 "only a woman; but from that country 
 whence the Turks have learned to cull 
 the flowers, Circassia! Tchagane, Sa- 
 lute the Princess Rikaiya!" 
 88
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 The slave came forward, knelt before 
 her new mistress, and kissed her hand. 
 Rikaiya's eyes were bent in wonder 
 on her golden hair, when suddenly the 
 slave looked up. Their eyes met, and 
 the Princess recoiled in something that 
 was almost terror. All the devils of 
 Eblis laughed in Tchagane's smile! 
 
 Perhaps the Emir had noticed his 
 wife's expression, for his brow con- 
 tracted in a frown. Turning to the 
 chief of his eunuchs, he bade him take 
 charge of the new slaves, and then 
 gave his hand to the Princess to lead 
 her into the inner apartments. 
 
 Rikaiya looked at him and smiled, a 
 smile of perfect happiness; the slave's 
 look was already forgotten in the joy 
 of her husband's return. But Tchagane 
 started forward, her arms folded on her 
 breast, and boldly addressed the Emir. 
 " Does my Lord not need me to pour 
 his sherbet?" 
 
 "No," replied AH Amr, "not to- 
 night." And turning from her without 
 another glance he led Rikaiya through 
 89
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 the long row of apartments, followed 
 by Amina and Fatima. 
 
 Tchagane looked after them for a 
 moment, and then turning to the chief 
 eunuch, "and I, where am I to lodge, 
 since the Emir does not need me to- 
 night?" 
 
 "With the other slaves," replied 
 Hassan, whom her manner did not 
 please, "and have a care that you are 
 not too forward, or I will teach you that 
 silence and obedience are the most im- 
 portant virtues for a slave. " Tchagane's 
 eyes flashed fire; but she remembered 
 that she was a slave, and said nothing 
 more. The other women crowded 
 around her, and examined her attire, 
 fingered her trinkets and her hair, and 
 rubbed her cheeks and forehead to find 
 out if the pink and white came off. 
 Tchagane supported the ordeal with 
 apparent patience, and at length even 
 their Oriental curiosity was satisfied, 
 and they led her gaily off to supper. 
 
 That evening the Emir remained 
 alone with his wife. The slaves were 
 90
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 not called to dance or sing; and after 
 Amina and Fatima had served the sup- 
 per, they also were dismissed and re- 
 joined the others. 
 
 The next day Ali Amr held his divan, 
 and all the cases for justice which had 
 arisen in his absence were brought 
 before him. Oriental deliberations and 
 decisions are naturally slow, and the 
 sun was sinking behind the mountains 
 of the Libyan desert when he re-entered 
 his harem. 
 
 Again Rikaiya came to meet him 
 followed by all her slaves, the Cir- 
 cassian this time among the rest. And 
 again the Emir retired with her into 
 the inner apartments, and they were 
 served and attended again by Amina 
 and Fatima only. But after supper an 
 hour or so, Hassan was called, and 
 brought back the Emir's command for 
 the slaves to array themselves and sing 
 and dance. 
 
 Hastily all were prepared, and the 
 slaves, some thirty in number, all in 
 their brightest raiment of gold-
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 embroidered jackets, spangled turbans, 
 and trousers of bright-hued brocade, 
 and loaded with necklaces, bracelets and 
 earrings of gold and silver, coral and 
 amber, entered the great salon of the 
 harem. 
 
 This apartment was high and vaulted, 
 and painted entirely, walls and ceiling, 
 in arabesques on a green ground. A 
 row of gilded columns ran around three 
 sides of it supporting a narrow gallery, 
 and the fourth side was raised three 
 steps and spread with Persian rugs, 
 thus forming a divan. And here, lean- 
 ing against piles of embroidered cushions, 
 sat the Emir and the Princess under a 
 canopy of crimson and gold. 
 
 The eunuchs with lutes, tambourines, 
 and bottle drums, mounted to the 
 gallery and began playing an Arabic 
 air, such as was heard in Mecca ere 
 the birth of Mohammed, and is still 
 heard wherever the music of Arabia is 
 known, monotonous and tinged with 
 melancholy, but wild and sweet. The 
 slaves ranged themselves in rows, un- 
 92
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 wound their scarfs, clicked their castinets 
 and the dance began. 
 
 The ceiling of the apartment was too 
 high for hanging lamps, but to every 
 column was fixed a silver sconce filled 
 with wax candles, which cast a soft and 
 brilliant light upon the scene. 
 
 The women were all natives of Africa, 
 Egyptians, Nubians, and Abyssinians. 
 All had black eyes and hair; but their 
 complexions varied from the cream and 
 roses of the Delta to the bronze and 
 copper of Nubia and the mountains 
 of the moon. Their beauty varied, 
 but all were pleasing, and none lacked 
 that grace which is the immemorial 
 gift of the daughters of the Nile. And 
 as they danced together, with their 
 glitter of spangles and their glory of 
 crimson and purple and pink, they 
 seemed like a bed of tropical flowers 
 swayed by the wind. 
 
 Amina and Fatima did not dance 
 with the others; but sat on the steps 
 of the divan. Only the two new in- 
 mates of the harem were missing, and 
 93
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 suddenly the Princess turning to Hassan 
 asked: "Where are the negress and 
 the Circassian?" 
 
 Hassan hurried out of the room to 
 seek them ; but when he re-entered with 
 the " gifts of Shiracouh, " the dance was 
 ended, and the women leaned against 
 the columns to rest while Amina and 
 Fatima danced alone. The negress, 
 who carried a lute, came forward and 
 seated herself on the floor against a 
 column; but Tchagane remained stand- 
 ing under the gallery, and one could 
 only see that she was muffled in a long 
 dark shawl. 
 
 The Princess loved to see her favour- 
 ites dance, her cheeks flushed and her 
 eyes sparkled as she looked at them. 
 The land of the Nile had put forth all its 
 charms and graces in the dance of the 
 other slaves; but the dance of Fatima 
 and Amina showed the greater and more 
 subtle grace and charm or her own 
 Arabia. 
 
 Tchagane looked at the Princess, 
 beautiful and noble as she sat there 
 94
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 beside her husband, proud and happy, 
 glittering with jewels, the daughter of 
 a Sultan and the wife of an Emir. 
 
 Very different had been her lot in 
 life; born and bred in wild freedom 
 among the mountains of Circassia. 
 Torn from her home at the age of 
 twelve, the troublous times had granted 
 her no resting place. She had been 
 sold in the markets of Smyrna, Damas- 
 cus, Broussa, and Cairo, and already 
 at the age of eighteen she was the slave 
 of her seventh master. She had been 
 loved and cast aside, and loved again. 
 Each year a change of scene and a new 
 lover from the Black Sea to the Nile. 
 She had known both blows and kisses. 
 But in this strange life, her beauty and 
 her wit had both grown brighter, and 
 she had learned many things which 
 made her able to hold her own. She 
 was sure of herself, and as she looked 
 at the Princess she smiled. 
 
 The Arab girls stopped dancing; 
 Hassan beckoned to Tchagane, and, 
 advancing to the middle of the hall, 
 95
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 she threw aside her shawl and stood 
 revealed in a costume as strange to the 
 Nile as she was herself. 
 
 Contrary to Oriental custom, her 
 shoulders and arms were bare and 
 dazzling as alabaster. A garment like 
 an old Greek tunic of black gauze shot 
 with silver threads veiled, but did not 
 hide, the whiteness of her skin and a 
 Damascus shawl of pink, striped with 
 gold, was draped around her hips and 
 fell to her ankles. Her feet were bare 
 but she wore golden anklets, and broad 
 gold bracelets were clasped high up her 
 arms. A purple velvet cap embroidered 
 in pearls replaced the Oriental turban, 
 and her golden hair was bound with 
 strings of pearls. 
 
 The musicians in the gallery were 
 silent, but the negress with the lute 
 began to play a wild Circassian air, and 
 Tchagane began to dance. Not the 
 still swaying, dance of the Orient, in 
 which the feet have the least play of all, 
 but a real dance, full of life and motion. 
 A dance of tossing arms and whirling 
 96
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 feet such as one finds to-day in the 
 Caucasus and along the shores of the 
 Black Sea. The other slaves looked on 
 in wonder; the Princess bent forward 
 with interest and surprise in her velvet 
 eyes; the Emir remained motionless 
 and silent, but his eyes were riveted 
 upon Tchagane with an expression which 
 no other dancer had ever called forth. 
 
 Wilder and more exciting grew the 
 melody, and quicker and more full of 
 fire the dance. Tchagane threw herself 
 from one posture into another with the 
 wild grace of a creature untamed. Her 
 cheeks glowed, her eyes shone like 
 stars, and she seemed to abandon herself 
 heart and soul to the passion of the 
 dance. 
 
 Suddenly the Princess turned her 
 eyes from the dancer to her husband, 
 and at his look, her heart was filled 
 with a new and unknown fear. Ali 
 Amr did not even see her; his eyes were 
 fixed upon Tchagane, and he had for- 
 gotten everything else. The Princess 
 sank back among her cushions, and the 
 7 97
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 negress drawing her thumb across the 
 strings, ended the tune with a wild 
 crash of notes, and Tchagane stood still. 
 
 Silence reigned in the hall. The slaves 
 waited for their mistress to applaud, 
 but she did not. All were surprised, 
 but none dared move or speak. 
 
 Tchagane herself took the initiative, 
 first making a low obeisance to the 
 Emir and his wife, she then, with un- 
 heard of effrontery, threw her shawl 
 around her, and quitted the apartment 
 without either asking permission or 
 being dismissed. 
 
 "Turkish insolence," said the Prin- 
 cess, "and a Turkish dance. I had 
 heard that the Turks were barbarians, 
 though they profess our faith. Their 
 slaves are like themselves." 
 
 Ali Amr did not even answer, but 
 like a man under a spell he rose and left 
 the hall by the door by which Tchagane 
 had made her exit. The Circassian was 
 waiting for him in the corridor, and 
 with a cry of joy she threw herself into 
 his arms. The Emir clasped her to his 
 98
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 heart and kissed her. "Tchagane, " 
 he said, " how have I lived without you 
 even for a day. It shall not be again. " 
 
 The Princess, taking no notice of the 
 Emir's sudden departure, called two 
 Nubian girls to dance. Then two Egyp- 
 tians took their places. Then Amina 
 and Fatima would have danced again, 
 but Rikaiya bid them not, and rising 
 from the divan retired to her own 
 apartments. 
 
 The favourites followed her and the 
 others waited for a while the return of 
 the Emir. But in vain; he did not 
 come, and Hassan at length put out 
 the lights, and the harem was given 
 over to silence and sleep. 
 
 The next day the Emir spent again 
 in the divan, supped with the Princess, 
 and retired to the Salamlik immediately 
 afterwards, saying that he had letters 
 to dictate to his secretary. But the 
 letters were never written, for Hassan, 
 not the secretary, was summoned and 
 received the order to bring Tchagane 
 to the Emir and also a flacon of that 
 99
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 sherbet which the Emir had brought 
 back from Cairo in the little casks which 
 had come from Greece. 
 
 Tchagane and the sherbet were 
 brought, and later a second flacon was 
 called for, and the negress with her 
 lute was summoned that Tchagane 
 might dance, this time for the Emir 
 alone. But AH Amr reappeared in 
 his harem that night no more. 
 
 A week passed, and every day was 
 like the other. The Emir appeared 
 in the harem at noon, and partook of 
 the mid-day meal with the Princess, 
 his wife, played for a few moments with 
 the little Abdul, his son, and then with- 
 drew, returning again for supper and 
 then bidding the Princess good-night. 
 Business was always the pretext for 
 his absence. Rikaiya knew it was a 
 pretext only, but she was too proud to 
 reproach him with his deceit, or even 
 to let him know that she understood. 
 That deceit in itself was a tribute to 
 her. An Oriental is the master of his 
 own house, and if a slave touches his 
 100
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 fancy the indulgence of that fancy is 
 his undisputed right. But it was a 
 tribute which Rikaiya did not value, 
 her nature was too noble to stoop to 
 deceit of any kind, and she would 
 rather he had told her the truth. 
 
 She was too proud to show either to 
 her husband or to her slaves what she 
 thought or felt, but this self-repression 
 only caused her to suffer more. She 
 had been so happy. Her husband had 
 been everything to her and she to him. 
 He had thought of no other woman, 
 looked at none but her. He had said 
 that he would take no other wife, and 
 she had never thought that she would 
 be deserted for a slave. What power 
 was it? What charm that this woman 
 possessed? Was it her golden hair that 
 had caught him in its meshes, or was 
 it the art with which she danced, or 
 was it her devil's smile? 
 
 Only at night when she was alone 
 
 Rikaiya gave way to her feelings and 
 
 then indeed she wept. At first Amina 
 
 and Fatima dared not speak to her, 
 
 101
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 but after three or four days they began 
 to talk, and though her pride would 
 not let her answer, she listened to them. 
 The whole harem was against the new- 
 comer they said, the "Turkish devil" 
 as they called her, for they knew nothing 
 of Circassia and her name was strange 
 and barbarous in their ears. She had 
 bewitched their master, they were all 
 sure of that, and they all knew besides 
 that the sherbet, which she alone knew 
 how to pour for him, was no sherbet, 
 but Greek wine, which she had taught 
 him to drink, the "Turkish devil!" 
 
 Sometimes Rikaiya wondered if her 
 husband's passion, for she could call 
 it nothing less, for the Circassian, would 
 last? And if it did not, she asked her- 
 self, would he return to her and love 
 her as he had done before, and could 
 she forget? Could her love for him be 
 the same, and could she ever be happy 
 as she had been again ? 
 
 Every morning when she looked first 
 from her window and saw the deep 
 perfect blue of the sky, the majestic 
 102
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 sand mountains glittering in the sun- 
 shine, gold and silver, purple and pink, 
 and the Nile gliding between the palm 
 groves and the fields green as a pavement 
 of emerald, another long, bright emerald 
 clasped in its embrace, the island of 
 Elephantine, her heart was filled with 
 hope. 
 
 But as the day wore through its 
 long bright dulness, that hope declined. 
 When the Emir came to sup with her 
 she was silent and depressed and could 
 not feign a gayety she did not feel, and 
 when each time he rose and bade her a 
 good-night, hope died in her heart like a 
 light blown out. Then she would have 
 her Arab girls bring their lutes and sing 
 their sad wild Arab airs, which filled 
 her eyes with tears, and she would say 
 to herself: "My good days are gone, and 
 will not return. I will never be happy 
 again; he loves me and will love me no 
 more." 
 
 At noon on the eighth day when the 
 Emir entered his wife's apartment, he 
 seemed animated by some new and happy 
 103
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 idea. The Princess asked no questions, 
 but the secret was soon revealed. 
 
 "To-night," said the Emir, "is the 
 full moon, and being now somewhat at 
 leisure, I have thought that we would 
 go and sup at the island of Pbilae. " 
 The Princess assented to the plan with 
 something like a flush of hope. Often 
 before had they made picnics to the 
 beautiful island, and many had been 
 the happy hours which she had spent 
 in the Temple of I sis. 
 
 Preparations for the party were com- 
 pleted as hastily as anything can be 
 done in the Orient, and in the cool of 
 the afternoon, the little caravan set 
 out from the palace, ambling first 
 through the bazaars of Assouan, and 
 then riding up the right bank of the 
 Nile. First rode the Emir, mounted on 
 an Arabian mare of the purest breed and 
 surrounded by his Lieutenant and a 
 dozen soldiers of his guard; and then 
 came the Princess Rikaiya with Amina 
 and Fatima. There followed Tchagane, 
 the negress, and four other slaves, all 
 104
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 riding asses and muffled from head to 
 foot in black mantles and veils, undis- 
 tinguishable one from the other. And 
 last of all rode Hassan and two other 
 eunuchs, who with two pack mules 
 brought up the rear. 
 
 The river was so low that they rode 
 along on the hard dry mud quickly and 
 easily; past the emerald fields of grain, 
 the palm groves, the mud villages en- 
 closed in their mud walls ; the sakyias 
 and shadoufs now useless and high in 
 the air, and the quarries of Syene, where 
 it seems that the workmen have only 
 stopped to rest and where one obelisk lies 
 cut and ready for shipping down the 
 Nile. 
 
 Past all this they rode, without a 
 thought of those who had once ruled in 
 Egypt and worked these quarries and 
 found out these water wheels, some of 
 whom slept in hidden tombs in the 
 mountains on the western shore, and 
 had done great things in their time, but 
 now were dead and forgotten. 
 
 Just before sunset they reached the 
 105
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 spot where the boats waited for them, 
 long flat boats each with a dozen rowers, 
 who, slowly and skilfully guarding 
 against the currents, rowed them across 
 to the island of Philae Philae! the most 
 beautiful spot in Egypt and one of the 
 most beautiful in all the world, 
 
 In the twelfth century the Temple 
 of Isis was almost as perfect as in the 
 days of the Ptolemies. Graceful clus- 
 ters of palms were grouped around it, 
 and instead of the matted thorn bushes 
 and heaps of stones and rows of broken 
 walls which encumber it now, the island 
 was then a garden full of luxuriant 
 plants and flowers tended with all the 
 care and skill of the Persian gardeners 
 of the Emir. 
 
 Ah, that we might have seen it then! 
 Even now, half ruined as it is, the island 
 turned a wilderness around it, the Temple 
 of Isis, though less imposing than those 
 of Edfou and Denderah, is still the most 
 beautiful and most poetic temple of the 
 Nile. 
 
 The party climbed up a rough stair- 
 106
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 case cut in the rock and arrived in the 
 spacious outer court-yard of the Temple, 
 then surrounded by a majestic colon- 
 nade, only half of which now remains. 
 Here the Lieutenant and the soldiers 
 saluted the Emir and withdrew, and the 
 Temple became a harem. The Princess 
 and her slaves unwound their veils and 
 reappeared in all the brightness of their 
 attire, and the eunuchs carrying the 
 various baskets and jars went into the 
 inner court-yard to prepare the supper. 
 
 Ali Amr seated himself on the pedes- 
 tal of a broken column, and Tchagane, 
 with that boldness which was her wont, 
 followed him and threw herself down in 
 the clover at his feet. Rikaiya turning 
 away from them went to the western 
 side of the inclosure and seated herself 
 on the low wall which still remains to- 
 day, and Amina and Fatima came with 
 their lutes and sat, as always, at her feet. 
 
 From this wall one has the most glori- 
 ous view in Egypt. Here the mount- 
 ains form a magnificent and savage 
 gorge through which the Nile rushes, 
 107
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 divided by a mass of rocks into two wild 
 and foaming streams, growing wilder 
 and whiter as they descend, till from the 
 distance one hears the thunder of the 
 cataract. 
 
 Rikaiya knew the place well, but she 
 had seen it only in happy hours, and it 
 inspired different thoughts in her to-day. 
 Long she gazed down the river, and the 
 grandeur and the wildness of the scene 
 appealed to her as they had never done 
 before. For the first time she felt the 
 passion in the heart of nature, and it 
 seemed to her that this great and wonder- 
 ful heart beat in sympathy with her own. 
 
 Then she looked at the Temple and 
 wondered who had built it, and who had 
 been the goddess who had been wor- 
 shipped there. They were idolaters she 
 knew, and as such to be abhorred. Her 
 own people also had worshipped idols 
 before Mohammed's time, but they had 
 built no temples, raised no shrines like 
 that of Philae to their gods. 
 
 For the first time she thought with 
 interest of these long forgotten people. 
 108
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 Surely if they could make things so 
 beautiful, and which so long outlived 
 even their memory, there must have 
 been something in them and their re- 
 ligion which should have been remem- 
 bered. Was it all really lost their 
 history, their arts, the writing on their 
 walls, which none could read and lost 
 for ever ? Perhaps all people came and 
 went and had their day and were for- 
 gotten? Even now it seemed that her 
 own glorious race was passing; soon 
 they would be no more than vassals to 
 the Turk the Turk who came from 
 nowhere, like the wind, and, like the 
 wind, went where he would, and con- 
 quered all things. 
 
 Or could it be that nothing in this 
 world was really lost, but things were 
 only hidden for a time, and that some 
 day perhaps a race of men as yet unborn 
 would come, to whom the wisdom of 
 Egypt would be revealed, and who could 
 read the writing on the walls, and would 
 give back its arts, its secrets, its religion 
 to the world? 
 
 109
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 These thoughts were interrupted by a 
 slave who came to tell the Princess that 
 the supper was ready in the court-yard of 
 the Temple. Rikaiya looked towards 
 her husband, and slowly, in answer to her 
 look, the Emir rose and came towards 
 her, gave her his hand and led her 
 through the gateway of the Temple into 
 the inner court-yard. 
 
 Here in the square pillared court, 
 whose beauty is still fresh to-day is 
 something which no other Temple offers, 
 a tenderness, a sweetness, which makes 
 one feel at home, like a memory or a 
 perfume. Perhaps it is the lingering 
 presence of the goddess who was both 
 wife and mother, as well as Queen of 
 Heaven and Earth. 
 
 Cushions and rugs were arranged on 
 the stone incline which leads into the 
 Temple, and here Ali and Rikaiya placed 
 themselves; a low table was spread in 
 front of them, and the slaves and eu- 
 nuchs stood around ready to serve. 
 
 The meal was slow like all Oriental 
 meals, and so silent that the Princess 
 no
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 bade her Arab girls fetch their lutes and 
 sing. They did her bidding, and at 
 their sad sweet Arab airs, tears glit- 
 tered in Rikaiya's eyes, and the silence 
 of her heart and of the Temple were 
 filled. 
 
 The air grew dark with the sudden 
 darkness of Egypt. The sun had set, 
 the after-glow had flushed and faded, 
 and now, above the eastern pylon of the 
 Temple, appeared the symbol of her 
 who once dwelt there. Mohammed, 
 the Virgin Mary, Diana, have all 
 claimed the crescent, but the full moon 
 is the orb of Isis still. 
 
 Slowly it rose, round, perfect, glitter- 
 ing like a burnished silver shield. The 
 darkness vanished, and the sky changed 
 to a soft turquoise blue. The mount- 
 ains glittered like heaps of shining ore, 
 the Nile reflected the blue of the sky, 
 and all the world was changed to blue 
 and silver. 
 
 The Emir and the Princess mounted 
 to the roof of the Temple, the better to 
 observe the beauty of the night, and the 
 in
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 slaves were left in the court-yard to enjoy 
 their supper. It was the first time for 
 eight days that they had been alone. 
 Rikaiya looked at her husband as if she 
 expected and hoped for something, 
 but the Emir did not even meet her 
 glance. 
 
 Then she spoke, timidly, praising the 
 beauty of the night, and venturing to 
 remind him of the many happy hours 
 which they had spent at Philae. Her 
 tone and manner were no longer those 
 of the proud daughter of the Sultan of 
 Yemen, but the Emir did not even seem 
 to notice the change. His answers 
 showed that his thoughts were elsewhere. 
 He was restless and impatient, and 
 Rikaiya, seeing that her effort had failed, 
 remained silent and forced herself to 
 be calm, though ten thousand daggers 
 turned in her heart. Presently a light 
 laugh was heard, a figure sprang through 
 the opening of the staircase, and Tcha- 
 gane ran towards them and stood still 
 in front of the Emir. 
 
 "These are Turkish manners doubt- 
 112
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 less," said the Princess, "that a slave 
 comes uncalled. " 
 
 "Most gracious Lady," replied 
 Tchagane, "a slave should know her 
 master's wishes before they are ex- 
 pressed." 
 
 The Emir rose and offered his hand 
 to his wife. "Let us go to Pharaoh's 
 bed," he said; "I have ordered Hassan 
 to prepare for us there, and there I will 
 drink my sherbet and Tchagane shall 
 dance. " 
 
 Rikaiya rose and descended the stairs 
 without a word, Tchagane following. 
 
 In the court-yard the slaves, who were 
 all sitting on the ground, sprang up hast- 
 ily, taking their lutes and fans. And 
 the eunuchs the forbidden flasks of wine. 
 The whole party proceeded to that ex- 
 quisite little building outside the Temple, 
 still known as Pharaoh's bed. In those 
 days the stone roof remained, and Has- 
 san had spread the floor with rugs, ar- 
 ranged a pile of cushions and a table at 
 one end, and hung between the pillars 
 lanterns of coloured glass. It was as 
 
 8 113
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 habitable, and perhaps more so, than it 
 had been in the time of the Ptolemies. 
 
 The Emir and the Princess seated 
 themselves, the slaves and the eunuchs 
 grouped themselves at the other end 
 of the apartment, for Pharaoh's bed 
 contains but a single room. The negress 
 squatting on the floor began her strange 
 melody, and Tchagane her still stranger 
 dance. Rikaiya had seen the dance but 
 once before, and then had found no 
 pleasure in it ; now it was only with an 
 effort that she sat through it again. Her 
 eyes indeed were not on the dancer, but 
 on her husband, and she saw, with death 
 in her heart, how his cheeks flushed, 
 and with what passionate delight his 
 eyes hung on the Circassian; how he 
 forgot everything else in her, and how 
 she intoxicated all his senses. 
 
 When the dance was done, he called 
 Tchagane to him and bade her fetch his 
 sherbet. Never before had he drunk 
 the forbidden liquor in the presence 
 of his wife; she had heard, but she had 
 not seen. Tchagane took a gold and 
 114
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 enamelled goblet which stood on the 
 table. Hassan handed her a flask, and, 
 holding the latter high in the air, she 
 poured a stream of ruby liquid which 
 filled the goblet to the brim, and then, 
 half kneeling, handed it to the Emir. 
 
 Then Rikaiya rose, "My Lord," 
 "wine is forbidden by the Prophet." 
 
 The Emir frowned and his black eyes 
 flashed fire. 
 
 "This is not wine," Tchagane in- 
 terposed with her accustomed insolence, 
 "it is but sherbet." 
 
 "Lying," said Rikaiya, "is the natu- 
 ral vice of slaves ; the Emir will not say 
 it is not wine." 
 
 "No," replied Ali Amr slowly, "it 
 is wine," and raising the goblet to his 
 lips, he drained it at a single draught. 
 
 "Another cup, Tchagane." 
 
 Rikaiya did not look at him again, but 
 calling Amina and Fatima to her, she 
 passed out of Pharaoh's bed into the 
 moonlight. Hassan followed them, and 
 silently all four walked through the 
 palm grove down to the water's edge. 
 "5
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 There for a little while they sat, but 
 Rikaiya could find no rest, and soon 
 they wandered back among the palms. 
 Here they met the other slaves and 
 eunuchs whom the Emir had dismissed, 
 that he might be alone with the Cir- 
 cassian. 
 
 Rikaiya took no notice of them, but 
 continued her way through the moonlit 
 gardens, till suddenly, without knowing 
 where she went, she found herself once 
 more in front of Pharaoh's bed. A 
 sudden desire seized her to see her 
 husband and his favourite alone, a 
 something which she could neither ex- 
 plain nor control. Motioning her attend- 
 ants to withdraw to a little distance, she 
 advanced alone, and, stepping upon the 
 threshold, stood in the shadow of the 
 portal, looking in upon the illuminated 
 apartment, herself unseen. 
 
 The Emir still leaned at his ease 
 among the cushions, and his flushed 
 cheeks and sparkling eyes showed that 
 his blood was hot with love and wine. 
 Tchagane, holding the goblet in her 
 116
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 hand, went to refill it from the flasks, 
 which stood upon the ledge between 
 two pillars. Her back was turned to 
 the Emir, her face full towards the 
 entrance, and Rikaiya marked well how 
 she raised the flacon and poured out the 
 wine. 
 
 "Would my Lord like a drop of attar 
 of roses in this cup?" she asked, looking 
 over her shoulder at the Emir. "Here 
 is my Lady Rikaiya 's own bottle. It 
 will give a sweetness to the wine." 
 
 "Yes," said the Emir, "let me taste 
 it; anything from your hand will be 
 sweet!" 
 
 Tchagane set down the goblet, lifted 
 the enamelled flacon and then, with her 
 left hand, raising over it a jewelled 
 medallion which hung upon her breast, 
 shook from it a white powder into the 
 perfume. Then, quickly pouring a few 
 drops of attar into the wine, she carried 
 the goblet back to the Emir. 
 
 For a second Rikaiya's heart stood 
 still, then her one thought was for her 
 husband ; springing through the doorway, 
 117
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 she ran to him and cried : "Do not drink, 
 my Lord; the wine is poisoned." 
 
 "Yes," said the Emir, "with the sweet 
 poison of love, which it pleases me to 
 drink," and though she sought to snatch 
 the goblet from him, he pushed her 
 back with his left hand, and raising it 
 to his lips, drained the liquor at a 
 draught. 
 
 "Ah, Tchagane, you are right," he 
 said: "the attar adds not only sweetness 
 to the wine, but fire!" 
 
 His eyes flashed, his cheeks flushed a 
 deeper red, and turning to his wife he 
 said: "Princess, the one poison that I 
 fear is jealousy. Oh ! how the wine glows 
 in my veins! it thrills it burns, it 
 God and his Prophet! what is this?" 
 Suddenly he turned pale, the veins 
 stood out on his forehead, and his eyes 
 glared like a wild beast's at bay. Spring- 
 ing to his feet, he looked from one to 
 the other of the women, and the fierce 
 question came from his trembling lips, 
 "Which of you has done this?" 
 
 And in their faces he read his answer : 
 118
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 in Rikaiya's, love and terror and de- 
 spair; in Tchagane's, only the mocking 
 smile of a devil who has done her worst. 
 
 "Rikaiya!" he cried; "Rikaiya, for- 
 give me ; she is a Jinn, she has bewitched 
 me, but as Allah hears me I love you and 
 you alone." 
 
 The Emir swayed and tottered on his 
 feet; Rikaiya caught him in her arms 
 and held him for a moment in an embrace 
 that seemed as if it might hold him back 
 from death itself. Then his limbs gave 
 way under him, his weight overcame 
 her, and they both fell among the 
 cushions, Ali Amr still in Rikaiya's 
 arms and dead. 
 
 Tchagane stood and looked at them a 
 moment, then rushing to the doorway 
 screamed for help help where there 
 was no more. -Hassan, Amina, and Pa- 
 tima were in a moment on the scene, 
 and soon the other slaves and eunuchs, 
 running from all directions, filled the 
 apartment. Hassan had lifted the Emir 
 and torn his carftan open while Rikaiya 
 felt his heart. Amina brought a jar 
 119
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 of water, and Fatima a flask of wine. 
 They fanned him, rubbed his temples all 
 in vain never more would Ali feel the 
 air stirred by peacocks' feathers never 
 more would he drink either water or 
 wine. His heart was still. 
 
 "What had happened?" the slaves 
 asked each other, but no one answered. 
 
 Tchagane had slipped unobserved 
 from the building, and Rikaiya sat 
 among the cushions silent and motion- 
 less, as if turned to stone, still holding 
 her husband in her arms. 
 
 Presently the sound of hurrying feet 
 was heard outside. Tchagane wrapped 
 in a veil reappeared, and the Lieutenant 
 of the Emir would have followed, with 
 half a dozen soldiers at his heels, had not 
 Hassan stopped him at the door and 
 warned him against invading the sacred- 
 ness of the harem. 
 
 The Lieutenant, a native Egyptian, 
 a rarity in this much conquered country, 
 whose name was Yousef, and who bore 
 the Turkish title of Bey, stopped, but 
 not for long. "If his master were 
 120
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 dead," he said, "it became his duty to 
 enquire into his death, and to take 
 command of affairs, including, though 
 with all reverence, the harem." 
 
 He therefore demanded entrance and 
 speech of the Princess as soon as the 
 women had had time to veil themselves. 
 And Hassan, seeing resistance useless, 
 sent the other eunuchs to the Temple 
 in search of the mantles and veils, 
 and Rikaiya and her slaves were 
 soon ready to receive their unwonted 
 visitors. 
 
 Yousef Bey then entered Pharaoh's 
 bed, accompanied by half a dozen 
 guards, saluted the widow of his Lord, 
 and then proceeded to examine the 
 body of the Emir, which had been laid 
 on a pile of cushions, in the centre of 
 the room. Assured at once that his 
 master was dead, the Lieutenant turned 
 to the Princess, and asked her if she 
 considered that the Emir had met a 
 natural death. 
 
 "No," replied Rikaiya, "he was poi- 
 soned by a slave whom he brought back 
 121
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 with him from Cairo I saw her mix 
 the poison in his wine." 
 
 "And you did not stop her " 
 
 "I could not," said Rikaiya, with 
 difficulty suppressing her pride and 
 indignation at being thus questioned 
 by an inferior. 
 
 " I begged the Emir not to drink, but 
 he would not listen." 
 
 "How did she give him the poison?" 
 asked Yousef. 
 
 "In attar of roses, which she added 
 to the wine " 
 
 "And which I took from my Lady's 
 own flask," cried Tchagane, rushing 
 forward. "Yousef Bey, I call God and 
 his Prophet to witness that I am inno- 
 cent. I loved my master and he loved 
 me. I was his favourite. My Lady was 
 jealous and took this means to revenge 
 herself and to destroy us both. " 
 
 There was an instant's silence. Ri- 
 kaiya recoiled a step in horror horror 
 doubled by the fact that she read in all 
 the faces round her the impression made 
 by Tchagane's words. 
 122
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 "Woman," said Yousef slowly to 
 Tchagane, "you speak boldly, but do 
 you know what you are saying? You 
 have accused the Princess Rikaiya, 
 daughter of the Sultan of Yemen, of the 
 murder of her husband, AH Amr 
 Emir! Think well before you repeat 
 the charge." 
 
 "I repeat it," cried Tchagane, "and 
 God is my witness! Who can believe 
 that I would harm my master? I am a 
 slave, who lived but in his favour, and 
 losing him to me means losing every- 
 thing. My Lady was jealous; she 
 thought her power over my Lord was 
 gone. She poisoned her flacon, know- 
 ing that I would mingle the attar with 
 his wine and that the crime could be 
 fastened on me. Take this flacon; 
 try it for yourself; give it to some 
 dumb beast to taste, and see if death 
 comes not to it as quickly as to the 
 Emir." 
 
 "Give me the flacon," said Yousef in 
 a low stern voice, "and the cup out of 
 which the Emir drank." 
 123
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 Both were handed to him by the 
 slaves; he smelled them both and 
 found in each the same perfume. Then 
 turning to Rikaiya he said, "Princess, 
 is this your flacon?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Rikaiya, "and it is 
 poisoned with some strange poison, 
 doubtless of the Greeks. I saw this 
 woman drop it from the medallion which 
 she wears upon her breast. Take it 
 from her, examine it, and you will see 
 that the charge which she has dared to 
 make against me is as false and base as 
 she herself. ' ' 
 
 "Give me the medallion," said the 
 Lieutenant, and without a moment's 
 hesitation Tchagane unfastened it and 
 handed it to him. 
 
 Yousef turned the medallion over in 
 his hand, a costly trinket of Greek work- 
 manship, set with bright coloured stones. 
 
 "Princess," he said, "is this the one?" 
 
 " Yes, " said Rikaiya. 
 
 Yousef turned and twisted the medal- 
 lion, and his expression changed ; finally 
 he threw it on the stone floor, and picked 
 124
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 it up again and then at last he spoke. 
 "This could hold no poison. It does 
 not open it is solid gold." 
 
 " God has proved my innocence !" cried 
 Tchagane, and, starting forward, she 
 managed, as if by accident, to drop her 
 veil and stood, as if unconscious of the 
 fact, before the lieutenant and his guards 
 in all her beauty. The other women 
 screamed in terror, but Tchagane stood 
 unmoved. What was it indeed to her 
 to be thus looked upon? she who had 
 been sold in half the markets of the 
 Turkish Empire. 
 
 Yousef Bey was young, and lacked 
 none of the fire of his race. He looked 
 at Tchagane as if he could never turn 
 his eyes away. Her eyes met his, and 
 from that moment the tongues of angels 
 might have borne witness against her 
 in vain. On his other side stood 
 Rikaiya, shrouded in her veil; her eyes 
 were fixed on Yousef, and she saw that 
 in the contest between them (whose very 
 existence she held as an insult to herself) 
 he had taken the part of the slave. 
 125
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 "Yousef Bey," she said, "I see that 
 you have decided against me. The word 
 of a Princess seems of less value than 
 that of a slave. But you are not my 
 judge. My husband, the Emir, was 
 governor of Upper Egypt; only by the 
 will of the Sultan can his place be filled, 
 and there is therefore none here to whom 
 I can appeal. I will go to Cairo. You 
 and this woman will accompany me 
 with what attendants I shall choose, and 
 I will lay my cause before the Emir 
 Shiracouh. " 
 
 Rikaiya was a Princess, and therefore 
 due to all consideration and respect. 
 Yousef had been her Lord's Lieutenant, 
 and he reflected that the authority 
 which he had gained so suddenly might 
 not be his for long, and that discretion 
 was the better part. 
 
 "Princess," he said, "I accept your 
 proposition. My brother Achmet shall 
 fill my place as Captain of the Guard. 
 We will bury my late Lord, Ali Amr, 
 to-morrow, and the next day we will 
 start for Cairo. " 
 
 126
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 "It is well," replied Rikaiya; "Has- 
 san will conduct our preparations, and 
 do you, command two boats for our 
 journey and another lodging for the 
 Circassian till then in Assouan. She 
 does not cross the threshold of my palace 
 nor enter my presence again." 
 
 Yousef bowed in silence, and so far 
 from disputing the will of the Princess, 
 his heart was filled with joy, for he 
 promised himself to lodge Tchagane 
 nowhere but in his own house. 
 
 The body of the Emir was then lifted 
 upon a rug, and so carried by the guards 
 out of Pharaoh's bed and through the 
 moonlit gardens, the train of women 
 and eunuchs following a sad and silent 
 procession (very different from the one 
 which had arrived on the island only a 
 few hours before) back to the Nile. 
 
 It was after midnight when the party 
 again reached Assouan. Yousef Bey 
 had commanded silence, not wishing at 
 that hour to rouse the sleeping town 
 with the news of the Emir's death. 
 Rikaiya and her slaves entered the 
 127
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 harem, and the body of the Emir was 
 disposed in the audience hall of the 
 palace in charge of the eunuchs and 
 guards. 
 
 Then Yousef led Tchagane and her 
 negress to his own home. His harem, 
 which included his mother and four 
 slaves, for he was not yet married, 
 were all asleep, and not deeming it best 
 to wake them, he retained the Circassian 
 and her attendant in the rooms of the 
 Salamlik. 
 
 Tchagane did not oppose the will of 
 this new master to whom chance had 
 given her. Yousef was young and 
 pleased her as well as another. She 
 had changed hands too often not to 
 understand her destiny, and she knew 
 and loved her power. The sun rose on 
 the day of Ali Amr's funeral to find his 
 Lieutenant as much the slave of the 
 Circassian as the Emir had been the 
 day before. 
 
 Rikaiya remained shut up in the inner- 
 most apartment of the harem, attended 
 only by Amina and Fatima, and refusing 
 128
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 to speak to anyone else except Hassan. 
 Alone with her devoted slaves she gave 
 way entirely to grief, but she felt that 
 even before the rest of the household 
 she could no longer appear as she had 
 always done, for she knew not how many 
 of them might be against her, how 
 many might believe the horrible accusa- 
 tion which had been cast upon her, and 
 when she went among them again she 
 knew that she must wear a mask. 
 
 The funeral of the Emir took place 
 late in the afternoon, and was cele- 
 brated with all the pomp which could be 
 so hastily arranged. The little Abdul 
 walked in the procession between Hassan 
 and Yousef Bey. The coffin was cov- 
 ered with gold brocade and India 
 shawls. The eunuchs and pages threw 
 cakes and silver money in the air as 
 they passed along the narrow streets, 
 and almost the entire population of As- 
 souan followed the cortege and saw the 
 Emir laid in his last resting-place in 
 the desert sand. 
 
 The next day two boats with broad 
 9 129
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 brown sails and twenty oars apiece left 
 Assouan for Cairo. On the first was 
 Yousef Bey with Tchagane and her 
 negress, one eunuch and a dozen of the 
 guards. On the second, Rikaiya with 
 the little Abdul, now last of his race, his 
 nurse, Amina, Fatima, Hassan, and two 
 other eunuchs and another dozen of the 
 guards. 
 
 It was now the month of April, and 
 the Nile was very low, but the wind was 
 favourable, blowing always from the 
 south and though the boats stopped at 
 sunset, and lay all night moored to the 
 banks, three weeks' time brought this 
 strangely assorted party on their still 
 stranger errand to the capital. It was 
 the first night of May and a half moon 
 shone in the deep blue sky when the boats 
 were finally moored to the landing-place, 
 and the long silent journey ended in the 
 shadow of the minarets and domes of 
 Cairo. 
 
 The next morning Yousef went ashore 
 and sought an audience of the Governor. 
 All things move slowly in the East, and 
 130
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 it was evening before he returned with a 
 litter and a train of donkeys with large 
 red saddles; and orders to bring the 
 Princess and her suite to the palace. 
 Rikaiya seated herself in the litter, her 
 attendants mounted the donkeys, and 
 the cavalcade, setting off at a good 
 speed, traversed the city and arrived 
 at the splendid and mysterious palace 
 of the Fatimite Kaliphs, now the resi- 
 dence of the Turkish Governor. 
 
 Here Yousef was obliged to part from 
 Tchagane and that without a word or 
 look, but not without hope, for he in- 
 tended to beg her as a gift from the 
 Emir. The Circassian once more passed 
 into the train of the Princess, and the 
 women and the eunuchs and the little 
 prince Abdul were introduced into the 
 palace by a side entrance which led to 
 the harem. 
 
 Rikaiya was the daughter of a Sultan, 
 but the palace of Yemen and that of 
 Assouan were both simple as compared 
 to this, on which had been lavished for 
 three centuries the treasures of Egypt,
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 the richest country of the world. Led 
 by one of the viceregal eunuchs, the 
 party advanced through room after 
 room, connected by folding doors, in 
 which were collected the wonders and 
 splendours of the Orient, a dream of the 
 Arabian Nights: walls of translucent 
 alabaster or rich Damascus tiles, or 
 mosaics of semi-precious stones, doors 
 and shutters, chests and tables of inlaid 
 woods, often incrusted with gold, 
 silver, and jewels, enamelled lamps 
 hanging by gold and silver chains. 
 There were wonderful carpets, softening 
 the tread on marble floors, curtains, 
 divans, and cushions of the richest silks 
 and satins interwoven with silver and 
 gold. Everywhere were spread soft and 
 brilliant colours, gold and jewels, rich 
 and precious things; everything which, 
 through the senses, could delight the 
 heart. 
 
 Finally they reached the apartments 
 
 which had been allotted for their use, and 
 
 Rikaiya and her attendants established 
 
 themselves as comfortably as possible. 
 
 132
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 A troup of black-eyed girls, who not 
 so long ago had been the slaves of Khalif 
 Adhed, fluttered in to offer their help, 
 if help were needed, and much more to 
 gratify their curiosity, but no woman of 
 higher rank, if indeed there were any 
 such, appeared. The silver lamps were 
 lighted, rose water and perfumes were 
 brought to the Princess, and presently 
 an elaborate supper was served. 
 
 Rikaiya, who during her whole voyage 
 had been plunged in grief, began to feel 
 that new interest in life which comes with 
 any pleasant change. The novelty and 
 splendour of the Palace of the Khalifs, 
 after the discomforts and monotony 
 of the voyage, seemed to her like morn- 
 ing after night, and her heart was filled 
 once more with hope. Human nature 
 and youth do not change, and though a 
 widow and the victim of a false accusa- 
 tion, Rikaiya was but seventeen. 
 
 The other slaves and eunuchs had 
 withdrawn; Amina and Fatima only 
 were with her sitting at her feet, and 
 beginning to tune their lutes. The
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 Princess leant among a pile of cushions, 
 unconsciously the most beautiful thing 
 in this beautiful apartment, and robed 
 in the very costume of crimson and 
 gold which she had worn one month be- 
 fore, on the return of her husband to 
 Assouan. 
 
 Suddenly the portiere in front of her 
 was lifted. A eunuch, evidently the 
 Kisslar Aga of the palace, entered and, 
 stepping respectfully aside, gave place 
 to a young man, who, with all the ease 
 of one who knows himself the master of 
 the situation, walked to the middle 
 of the room and stood still before the 
 Princess. Rikaiya was so startled by 
 this apparition that she forgot that 
 she was unveiled, and returned the 
 newcomer's gaze with interest equal to 
 his own. 
 
 The young man was of medium height, 
 slender and graceful, dark and pale. 
 His features were fine and clearly cut; 
 he was smooth shaven, and his ears, 
 hands, and feet were most beautiful. 
 Instead of a turban he wore the round 
 134
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 astrachan cap of the Kurds, which 
 showed his hair in closely curling blue- 
 black waves, and his eyes were grey 
 with long black lashes, and as bright 
 as stars. His whole expression was 
 sensitive and almost sad, but full of 
 genius and fire, a being in whom the 
 body was second to the soul. 
 
 He wore a caftan of black satin shot 
 with silver and fastened with a silver 
 girdle round his waist. In the girdle 
 stuck a jewelled dagger and on his left 
 hand he wore a signet ring. 
 
 The charm of his presence was so great 
 that Rikaiya could hardly turn her eyes 
 away from him, but finally recollecting 
 how unwarrantable was the appearance 
 in her apartment of a man, she spoke, 
 but to the eunuch. 
 
 "Who is this person," she asked, 
 "who against all the rules of Islam 
 enters my presence without giving me 
 even time to veil myself?" 
 
 "Princess," replied the eunuch with 
 an air of conscious pride, "this is the 
 Governor of Egypt."
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 "This," cried Rikaiya, rising to her 
 feet, "the Governor of Egypt! Surely 
 the Emir Shiracouh is not so young." 
 
 "Princess," said the young man, 
 speaking for himself, "the Emir Shir- 
 acouh is dead; I am his nephew Sal- 
 addin." 1 
 
 His voice, which was soft and sweet, 
 played on Rikaiya's ears like music. 
 They looked at each other again in sil- 
 ence. It was one of those moments when 
 time seems to hold its breath this first 
 meeting of the Arab Princess and the 
 Kurdish soldier, who was soon to be 
 the Sultan of the Turks. 
 
 The eunuch, anxious, as is usual with 
 his kind, to talk, narrated that Salad- 
 din Emir, though young (he was at this 
 time twenty-two), had been chosen by 
 the Sultan to succeed his uncle because 
 of his wisdom, which he possessed 
 beyond his years, and for the valour 
 which had made him the hero of every 
 battle in which he had taken part. 
 
 i Saleh-ed-din. 
 
 136
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 Saladdin bid the eunuch hold his 
 peace, but his words had pleased 
 Rikaiya. She was glad to think that 
 those lips which smiled so radiantly 
 could direct in council also, and that 
 hand could wield the scimiter as well 
 as wear the signet. He was the Gov- 
 ernor of Egypt, and she bethought her- 
 self that it was to him that she must 
 plead her cause. 
 
 "Saladdin Emir" she said, "I have 
 come to you in search of justice. My 
 husband, Ali Emir, is dead. He was 
 poisoned. " 
 
 Saladdin smiled. "By a Circassian 
 slave," he said, "whom my uncle gave 
 him, and to whom he entrusted the 
 performance of the deed. " 
 
 Rikaiya shrank back with mingled 
 horror and relief; the secret was revealed 
 and she was cleared. 
 
 "So it was all a plot," she said. "The 
 Emir Shiracouh pretended to be my 
 husband's friend, and sent him home 
 with honours, presents, and his as- 
 sassin. Surely it would have been more 
 
 '37
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 honourable and less cruel to us both had 
 he taken his life openly here." 
 
 Her eyes flashed and her cheeks 
 flushed crimson; the whole force and 
 passion of her nature were aroused by 
 the treachery of Shiracouh. 
 
 "Princess," replied Saladdin, "AH 
 Amr was a favourite with the people, a 
 Fatimite. His death was considered 
 necessary, and Shiracouh thought best 
 that it should seem an accident. My 
 uncle was the servant of the Sultan, 
 and did what he considered his duty to 
 his master. No assassin should strike 
 a blow for me, or through me, for the 
 Sultan or the Khalif. But, neither will 
 I judge the dead. " 
 
 " Saladdin Emir, " said Rikaiya, "your 
 words are just. Shiracouh is dead, 
 and you have not to answer for his 
 deed. But was it his intention to include 
 me in his vengeance, by making me my 
 husband's murderess? Of which I am 
 accused." 
 
 "No, Princess," replied Saladdin. 
 "The slave accused you of the crime 
 138
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 perhaps to save herself, perhaps from 
 jealousy, or for some other reason. God 
 alone knows the female heart. But, 
 since the accusation has been made, I 
 tell you this which otherwise should not 
 be told. I am the Governor of Egypt. 
 My first duty is to the Sultan, my first 
 regard for the memory of Shiracouh! 
 But I am resolved to maintain justice 
 and to defend the innocent, and it shall 
 not be said that Saladdin allowed the 
 daughter of a Sultan to suffer under a 
 false and unjust charge." 
 
 Rikaiya looked at him a moment more 
 in silence, and there were tears in her 
 velvet eyes. One noble nature under- 
 stands another, and she knew the sacri- 
 fice which Saladdin made for her, and 
 the danger which he ran in thus reveal- 
 ing a state secret for her sake. 
 
 "Saladdin Emir," she said, "you are 
 more than good to me and I thank you 
 with all my heart. " 
 
 Saladdin flushed with pleasure, and a 
 smile like summer lightning played 
 around his lips. 
 
 139
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 " Princess, " he said, "an act of justice 
 needs no thanks." 
 
 A sudden rustling was heard behind 
 them, the portiere was hastily parted, 
 and, with her usual audacity, Tchagane 
 ran into the room and, falling on her knees 
 beside Saladdin, would have taken and 
 kissed his hand. But he drew back and 
 regarded her with an imperious frown. 
 
 "The assassin," he said, "of AH Amr 
 Emir!" 
 
 Tchagane looked at him with all her 
 witchery, that witchery which had 
 never failed her yet. 
 
 "Saladdin Effendi Emir, "she replied, 
 "I am a slave and did the bidding of my 
 master." 
 
 "Yes," he said, "but the bidding was 
 not mine, and you did more, you ac- 
 cused an innocent woman, a Princess, 
 of the crime." 
 
 "Emir, life is sweet even to a slave. 
 My Lady Rikaiya had seen me drop the 
 poison in the Emir's wine. She accused 
 me of the murder, and I accused her in 
 return, to save myself. " 
 140
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 Tchagane wasa judge of human nature. 
 Her boldness and the truth of what she 
 said, unhappy as it was, pleased Salad- 
 din, but she herself did not. For him her 
 beauty and her witchery had no power. 
 He knew and could not forget what she 
 was. For the first time in her life 
 Tchagane had failed. 
 
 "Princess," said the Emir, turning to 
 Rikaiya again, "you have heard the 
 woman's words, and she tells the truth. 
 She has been the instrument I will not 
 say of justice but of destiny. But 
 through her you have lost your husband 
 and your home, and have suffered under 
 a false and terrible accusation. It is for 
 you to fix her punishment!" 
 
 Rikaiya looked at her enemy, at the 
 woman who had robbed her of her hus- 
 band's love, of her happy life, her palace 
 at Assouan, of all that she held most 
 dear, the woman who, though but a 
 slave, had triumphed over her, a Princess, 
 on every occasion when there had been a 
 contest between the two. Now at last 
 her hour had come. All that she had 
 141
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 suffered passed through her mind and 
 involuntarily, as though to still the pain 
 of remembrance, she pressed her hands 
 across her heart. 
 
 Tchagane did not look at her, but 
 remained kneeling, her eyes fixed on 
 Saladdin, incredulous that he could 
 really resist her. It was the same look 
 that Rikaiya knew too well, which she 
 had seen her fix, not only on AH Amr 
 but on Yousef, the look with which 
 Tchagane regarded all men. 
 
 For a moment an overwhelming rage 
 possessed the heart of the Princess, a 
 desire to stab the Circassian to the heart 
 with her own hand. In another moment, 
 she thought, Saladdin would melt as 
 the others had done, would recall his 
 words to her, turn from her as even her 
 husband had done, and take the "Turk- 
 ish devil" to his heart. And then she 
 looked at him, the young Governor of 
 Egypt. His eyes were indeed fixed upon 
 Tchagane, but not with love, only with 
 a disdainful curiosity, and then as if she 
 wearied him too far, he spoke. 
 142
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 "Woman, " he said, "spare your sweet 
 looks and smiles, keep them till the next 
 time when you stand for sale in the 
 market. Such as you have no power 
 to charm Saladdin. " 
 
 And as the lightning comes and goes, 
 Rikaiya's rage vanished, leaving no 
 trace behind. Tchagane's death could 
 not have repaid her for all that she had 
 suffered at her hands, but Saladdin 
 had avenged her. 
 
 "Emir," she said, "this woman has 
 indeed caused me to suffer everything 
 of which the human heart is capable, 
 but she, it seems, was but the instrument 
 in the hands of others; and were it not 
 so, still it were beneath my dignity to 
 take revenge upon a slave. I only ask 
 that I may never have to see her again. " 
 
 " Princess, " exclaimed Saladdin, look- 
 ing at Rikaiya with that look which 
 "the others" had given to Tchagane, 
 "woman is beautiful, tender, and sweet 
 by nature and the will of God. I have 
 wondered if she could be great and noble 
 also, or if those qualities were vouchsafed, 
 143
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 alone of all her sex, to Kadjah, Mother of 
 the believers. Rikaiya, I have found 
 them in you. You are a Princess not by 
 birth alone. " 
 
 Rikaiya flushed with pleasure, more, 
 with joy. She had loved her husband 
 but he had not been like Saladdin. 
 
 And now the nature of the slave 
 showed itself at last without its mask. 
 Without a word of thanks for Rikaiya 's 
 pardon, she threw herself on her face at 
 Saladdin 's feet, and wept and sobbed as 
 if seeking in a last fit of desperation 
 to gain by tears what she had failed 
 to win by smiles. 
 
 "Mahmoud," said Saladdin, speaking 
 to the eunuch, "remove this woman to 
 the most distant part of the harem, 
 and see that never again does she offend 
 the Princess Rikaiya with her presence. 
 To-morrow she must be sent away, but 
 where? She is a firebrand who will 
 bring trouble everywhere, and I will 
 not make any true believer subject to 
 such a curse." 
 
 " Emir Effendi " said the eunuch, "you 
 144
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 might send her as a present to the Shah 
 of Persia in return for the arms and 
 saddles and the great carpet which he 
 sent to the Emir Shiracouh. " 
 
 "No," said Saladdin, "the Shah is a 
 Shia, but still a Moslem. I will send 
 her, " and again he smiled the lightning 
 smile, "to the young Emperor of Con- 
 stantinople. It may be the will of Allah 
 that she shall hasten the downfall of the 
 Comnennian dynasty." 
 
 At these words which inspired her 
 with a new hope, Tchagane rose. 
 Saladdin 's manner had led her to dread 
 the worst fate which can befall a slave, 
 to be given to some poor man and con- 
 demned to a life of poverty and drudg- 
 ery, from which there would be no 
 escape. Even a mediocre house like 
 that of Yousef was not to her taste, 
 though the Lieutenant himself has 
 amused her for a while. Though born 
 a peasant and become a slave, her life had 
 been lived in palaces, and splendour and 
 luxury were as necessary to her as to a 
 Princess of the blood. Saladdin 's words 
 10 145
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 "The young Emperor" and "Con- 
 stantinople" opened a new field to her 
 ambition, and her vague ideas of the 
 liberty of women among the Christians 
 promised her more than she could hope 
 for in the Orient. 
 
 Por a moment she stood in silence 
 looking from Saladdin to Rikaiya, an 
 insolent defiance in her eyes. Then as 
 Mahmoud took her by the arm to lead 
 her away, she made a low and mocking 
 reverence, as if taking her leave of the 
 life of the Orient, and disappeared be- 
 hind the green and gold portiere forever. 
 
 Rikaiya looked at Saladdin with an 
 unutterable gratitude in her beautiful 
 eyes. "Emir," she said with some 
 reluctance, as if she had rather leave 
 the thing in doubt, "you have decided 
 the fate of this woman ; will you tell me 
 what is to be mine? My own country 
 is far away, and I have no longer a 
 home at Assouan. " 
 
 "Princess," said Saladdin, asking a 
 question in his turn, "how long has AH 
 Amr been dead?" 
 
 146
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 "Three weeks yesterday," replied 
 Rikaiya. 
 
 "Strange!" exclaimed Saladdin; "he 
 died then on the same day as my Uncle 
 Shiracouh. On the same day our forty 
 days of mourning will be accomplished, 
 and we will talk of the future. And until 
 then, Princess, you will honour me with 
 your presence and consider this palace, 
 which is mine by the favour of the 
 Sultan, as your own." 
 
 " I thank you, Emir, " replied Rikaiya, 
 and she might have said more, but to 
 her infinite surprise Saladdin took her 
 hand and pressed it to his lips, and then 
 withdrew. 
 
 Once left alone Rikaiya retired to rest, 
 but it was not till late in the night that 
 her excitement permitted her to sleep. 
 Her interview with Saladdin had been 
 one of the greatest and most unusual 
 events of her life. Reared like all 
 Oriental women of rank in the strictest 
 seclusion, she had known no men but 
 her father, brothers, and husband. Her 
 ideas of the rest of mankind had been
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 limited to glimpses of them through the 
 harem lattices; and Yousef had been 
 the first one outside of her immediate 
 family with whom she had ever spoken, 
 and that through her veil and only from 
 necessity. 
 
 And now she had received the visit 
 of a young man and had conversed with 
 him, and he had seen her unveiled; all 
 as she had heard these things were done 
 among the Giaours. And yet she could 
 not feel herself to blame. The law of 
 Islam indeed forbids her all intercourse 
 with men not of her kindred, but an- 
 other law, as strong, made a Moslem the 
 master of his own house, and gave him 
 the right to see and speak with any 
 woman who happened to be an inmate 
 of his harem, and, since this law applied 
 to all, no one could dream of denying 
 to the Governor of Egypt the freedom 
 of his own palace. 
 
 And she had come here of her own 
 free will to seek for justice, and not 
 knowing what would be her fate. Jus- 
 tice she had found, but her destiny was 
 148
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 known only to God. She was a Princess, 
 but she knew how much respect was 
 paid among the Turks to royal blood. 
 Shiracouh, she knew, had been a soldier 
 of fortune, and his nephew could be no 
 more. She did not discriminate among 
 the Turks and Kurds, but believed that 
 they were all adventurers who relied not 
 on blue blood or high descent, but only 
 on their swords. 
 
 And then her thoughts returned to her 
 husband, whom she had for the first time 
 forgotten. AH Amr had been a prince 
 of purest Arab blood, of the tribe of the 
 Koresh, the family of El Hashim, and 
 more than all a Fatimite, and a descend- 
 ant of the Prophet. He had been tall 
 and handsome, noble in his manner and 
 in his bearing. She had loved him for 
 three years and mourned him now, 
 three weeks. He had been untrue to 
 her and deserted her for a slave, but he 
 had repented and died in her arms. She 
 had forgiven him and, though dead, she 
 loved him still, and would love him al- 
 ways. He had been a Prince in every- 
 149
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 thing. But to-night she had seen 
 Saladdin. 
 
 The next day mourning garments 
 were brought to Rikaiya, such as there 
 had been no time to procure in Assouan, 
 garments not too dismally dark, but 
 relieved with silver like Saladdin's own, 
 so that they seemed less like widow's 
 weeds than merely as if she had, like 
 Egypt itself, exchanged the green of the 
 Fatimites for the black of the Abassids. 
 
 All day long she and the little Abdul 
 and their attendants were amused by 
 eunuchs and slaves. They were shown 
 all the apartments of the harem, the 
 wonderful gardens, and finally through 
 the outer lattices, the narrow crowded 
 streets of Cairo. After a childhood 
 spent at Yemen and three years at 
 Assouan, it was like another world. 
 
 In the evening Saladdin repeated his 
 visit, but this time, instead of standing 
 as he had done before, he seated himself 
 beside Rikaiya, on the green and gold 
 divan, conversed with her on various 
 subjects, and remained for more than an
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 hour. Fatima and Amina were present 
 sitting silent on the floor, but they 
 were never asked to touch their lutes, 
 nor were any other slaves summoned to 
 sing or dance. Saladdin and Rikaiya 
 needed no amusements. 
 
 The third evening the Princess looked 
 for his visit with an impatience which 
 she did not seek to explain to herself. 
 Nor did he keep her waiting, but came 
 sooner and stayed longer than the even- 
 ing before. The fourth and fifth, the 
 sixth and seventh evenings were all alike, 
 and yet each one was longer and more 
 sweet. Rikaiya wore the mourning 
 garments, but the silver which glittered 
 through their blackness found its re- 
 flection in her heart. 
 She had mourned three weeks for AH 
 Amr, and might have mourned him al- 
 ways, but the charm of Saladdin was too 
 great! That charm (which never failed 
 to conquer even his enemies), here in 
 this green and gold apartment, by the 
 light of silver lamps, and the sweet scent 
 of incense, made him irresistible. Gradu-
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 ally the image of the Fatimite Prince, 
 which she had thought to keep always 
 in her heart, was replaced by that of 
 the Kurdish soldier. On the seventh 
 night, the moon was full again, and 
 Ali Amr's infidelity had cost him more 
 than life alone: he was not dead only, 
 but forgotten. 
 
 The time passed on and the forty days 
 of mourning ran out. On the forty- 
 first, Rikaiya laid her black robes aside, 
 and there were brought to her, in a box 
 of sandalwood, two costumes, the richest 
 that oriental fancy could devise. One, 
 lilac embroidered in gold ; and the other, 
 rose thickly sown with pearls. Rikaiya 
 attired herself in the lilac robe and decked 
 herself with all her jewels, and when 
 at the usual hour Saladdin entered her 
 apartment, the splendour of her beauty 
 was like the rising sun. 
 
 Saladdin, too, had laid aside his mourn- 
 ing, but his taste was always for the 
 sombre. A caftan of deep blue and 
 silver replaced the black one, and the 
 only real change was an aigrette of 
 152
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 diamonds which sparkled in his cap. 
 Rikaiya rose to meet him at his entrance, 
 and for the second time he took her hand 
 and pressed it to his lips. 
 
 "Princess," he said, "the days of 
 mourning are accomplished." 
 
 "Yes," replied Rikaiya, "and I have 
 to thank you, Saladdin Emir, for all 
 your kindness and hospitality." 
 
 "Nay, Princess," said Saladdin, "it is 
 you who have honoured this palace with 
 your presence. You are the daughter of 
 a Sultan and the widow of a Prince. 
 There are none here who equal or ap- 
 proach your rank. " 
 
 "Birth is the gift of God, Emir," 
 replied the Princess, "and therefore to 
 be prized, but there are other gifts 
 greater than royal blood. " 
 
 At these words Saladdin flushed with 
 pleasure. "Princess," he said, "I need 
 not tell you that the Prophet has for- 
 bidden a young woman to remain a 
 widow after the time he has fixed, the 
 forty days of mourning for the dead." 
 
 He paused, but his eyes rested on
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 Rikaiya, and told her all that he could 
 have said. Love needs no words. 
 
 "Rikaiya," he said at last, "will you 
 go back to Yemen, or will you stay 
 with me?" 
 
 Love takes courage from a man and 
 gives it to a woman. Rikaiya looked 
 at him and answered, " I will stay with 
 you, Saladdin Emir. " 
 
 The silence was broken, the reserve 
 of days and weeks melted like mist 
 before the rising sun. The Kurdish sol- 
 dier took the Arab Princess in his arms, 
 and rank and race, and the whole world 
 besides, were forgotten in their first kiss. 
 
 On the third day the nuptials of 
 Saladdin and Rikaiya were celebrated 
 with all the splendour of the Orient. 
 The streets of Cairo were hung with 
 coloured lanterns and in the blue Egyp- 
 tian sky shone the New Moon . . . the 
 New Moon, which, like the Phoenix, 
 and the Soul, rises immortal from its 
 own extinction. 
 
 The full orb had marked the end of 
 Rikaiya's first life and love, and now the
 
 The Last of the Fatimites 
 
 crescent lit her to new hope and happi- 
 ness. ALLAH ILLAH ALLAH, MOHAMMED 
 
 ER RAZUL ALLAH! 
 
 The history of Saladdin is too well 
 known to need repetition. Gifted with 
 genius and valour, which made him the 
 hero of his time, his rise to power was as 
 sudden and brilliant as that of the 
 meteor which flashes into life from 
 nowhere and illuminates the whole 
 heavens with its light. 
 
 Rikaiya had given her hand and heart 
 to a soldier of fortune. A few years 
 later she found herself the consort of the 
 first sovereign of the age Saladdin, the 
 all-powerful Sultan of the Turks; Salad- 
 din whose fame so long outlives him 
 that, after the lapse of seven centuries, 
 he is still a bright star in history ! 1 
 
 See Appendix II. 
 
 IS5
 
 The New Moon of Islam
 
 THE NEW MOON OF ISLAM 
 I 
 
 THE setting sun trailed his long 
 golden rays over the green Bul- 
 garian hills, and the evening breeze 
 brought with it the scent of blossoms 
 and the perfume of the yellow locust, the 
 sweetness of the Balkan spring. Na- 
 ture had made beautiful the scene and 
 the hour, but man has spoiled her work. 
 The storks had left their happy feeding 
 grounds and already the vultures came 
 screaming in their place, and their 
 feast was ready, for far and near, among 
 blood-stained grass and trampled flow- 
 ers, lay the corpses of horses and men. 
 It was the evening of the battle of 
 Varna, the 2pth of May 1444, a day 
 memorable in the history of the Hun- 
 garians and the Turks. The war be- 
 159
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 tween these two nations had been ended, 
 and the great and ever-victorious Murad 
 had agreed to a treaty of peace, when he 
 might have pursued his conquests into 
 the heart of Hungary; for it has been 
 truly said by his enemies as well as his 
 friends, that Murad II. never made war 
 except in a just cause, and sheathed his 
 sword in the moment of victory. 
 
 Secure in the belief that peace was 
 established, Murad withdrew his vic- 
 torious army to Magnesia, leaving only 
 the necessary garrisons of his Balkan 
 fortresses behind. But hardly was his 
 back turned when evil and ambitious 
 councillors surrounded the young King 
 of Hungary, French adventurers eager 
 for the spoils of war, the dark and wily 
 Cardinal Julian, and the brave and 
 ambitious John Hunyadi, whose later 
 greatness has caused his share in the 
 treachery to be almost forgotten. 
 
 "Now," they said, "Murad is gone to 
 
 Magnesia, and with him his army. His 
 
 Balkan provinces are at our mercy, let 
 
 us invade them, and we will make them 
 
 1 60
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 ours. Ladislaus shall be King of Bulgaria 
 and Servia as well as of Hungary!" 
 
 Murad had never broken a treaty or 
 his word. Truth was indeed the undeni- 
 able merit and custom of the Turks, 
 which since the beginning of their 
 history, when Disabul had sent word to 
 Justinian that the Turks could neither 
 utter nor forgive a lie, had not changed. 
 
 But the Christians had often broken 
 theirs, and the plea so often used was 
 urged again, that it was not necessary to 
 keep faith with infidels. The councils 
 were specious and tempting; Ladislaus 
 was young and hot blooded ; he listened 
 and fell. With a gallant and glittering 
 army, he crossed the Danube and pur- 
 sued his way unhindered down through 
 the Servian and Bulgarian valleys almost 
 to the Black Sea; almost, but the news 
 had followed and overtaken Murad 
 before he reached Magnesia. He turned 
 back and met Ladislaus at Varna, carry- 
 ing on a lance in the front of his army 
 "the broken treaty." 
 
 The surprise of the Hungarians and 
 ii 161
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 French served only to increase their 
 courage, and they threw themselves on 
 their enemies with such irresistible force 
 that their cavalry, at the head of which 
 rode Ladislaus himself, cut their way 
 into the heart of the Turkish army. 
 The Irregulars were scattered like chaff 
 before the wind. The Janissaries 1 them- 
 selves gave way, and for a moment all 
 seemed lost. Then Murad, thinking 
 always of the broken treaty, called 
 upon Jesus Himself to avenge the mock- 
 ery of his name and religion. And 
 immediately the fortune of the battle 
 changed. 
 
 The dashing charge of the Hungarians 
 had carried them too far. The Turks re- 
 covering themselves from the onslaught 
 closed in on them on every side. A 
 javelin thrown, it is said by Murad 
 himself, brought Ladislaus's horse to 
 the ground. The Janissaries crowded 
 round him, and a moment later his 
 
 1 The Turkish spelling is Jeni Cheri (new 
 troops) . 
 
 162
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 head was shown to his soldiers on a 
 lance, his slayer exclaiming: "Hunga- 
 rians, behold the head of your King. " 
 
 A general mel^e followed, and the 
 flower of the Hungarian army was left 
 dead on the field. John Hunyadi and 
 Cardinal Julian escaped with a remnant 
 of that splendid host. The Cardinal 
 was murdered, as he fled, by one of his 
 soldiers who was prompted to this act 
 because he knew that the churchman's 
 pockets were filled with gold, but Hun- 
 yadi made good his flight, and lived 
 to fight on many another day. 
 
 The Balkans were reconquered, but 
 the Turks had also suffered a heavy loss, 
 and the grief of the Sultan for his 
 soldiers was mingled with a generous 
 regret for the young King of Hungary. 
 Forgetting the treachery of his foe, 
 and remembering only his courage, 
 Murad erected a column to the memory 
 of Ladislaus on the field of Varna. 
 
 Parties of Kurds, Armenians, and 
 natives of Asia Minor were scattered 
 over the field collecting the spoils of the 
 163
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 dead, booty which the haughty Janis- 
 saries scorned, and which was always 
 abandoned to the irregular troops. 
 Some had pursued the fugitives up the 
 valley and returned with occasional 
 prisoners, waifs, and strays which the 
 tide of battle had left behind. One 
 such party brought with them a young 
 woman and a child. The former, in the 
 full bloom of youth and beauty, wore 
 the graceful holiday dress of a Servian 
 peasant, the white muslin skirt and 
 blouse striped with pink and gold, and 
 the close-fitting black vest embroidered 
 in silver. The silver clasp of her girdle, 
 and the amber beads around her neck 
 had not been disturbed, but her cap and 
 veil had fallen off, and their absence dis- 
 played a wealth of golden hair, which 
 belonged rather on the shores of the 
 Baltic than on those of the Black Sea. 
 The child, a girl of three years, which 
 she carried in her arms was the counter- 
 part of herself, and the two formed a rich 
 and unhoped for prize. 
 
 The soldiers were discussing among 
 164
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 themselves how they could most quickly 
 dispose of their captives, when the 
 question was answered by the appear- 
 ance on the scene of a Greek, who 
 followed the army and who was well 
 known as a purchaser of female captives. 
 The bargain was made, the soldiers had 
 no means of transporting their prizes, 
 and wished to see their value in ready 
 money, and almost before the young 
 woman knew what had happened, she 
 had changed owners. 
 
 Leaving the battle-field, the Greek 
 led her by a path between the hills to 
 where the Turkish camp was being 
 hastily constructed, and to his own tent 
 which was already firmly fixed, for not 
 being a fighting man he had been able 
 to devote more time to its erection. 
 An old Greek woman and a negro slave 
 were seated at the door of the tent. The 
 woman whom the Greek saluted as 
 mother arose and went with them inside 
 the tent, where she set food before the 
 captives, olives and bread and wine. 
 The Greek, whose name was Cymon, 
 165
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 then tried to learn something from the 
 young woman regarding herself. Having 
 accosted her in Greek and Turkish with- 
 out eliciting a reply he spoke to her in 
 Italian, which language she understood; 
 and he was soon in possession of her 
 history. 
 
 She was a native of Pomerania, and 
 had followed her husband, a German 
 adventurer, to Italy, where he had 
 fought under one standard and another. 
 They had led a wandering life between 
 the cities and the camps, till chance had 
 brought them in the train of a French 
 count to Hungary. This was their 
 first battle in the Hungarian service, 
 and such a one as they had never seen 
 before, for in Italy war (being carried 
 on by mercenaries who had nothing at 
 stake but their pay) was, as the young 
 woman observed, mere play, but here 
 it was deadly earnest. 
 
 Her life had, she admitted, been a 
 
 hard one, but full of excitement which 
 
 she liked, and all lives had their good 
 
 times and their bad. Her husband, she 
 
 1 66
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 feared, had been killed. She had 
 searched the battle-field, and had not 
 found him ; had he been living, she knew 
 he would never have fled and left her 
 behind. Here her story ended with a 
 burst of tears. Her name was Minna 
 and the child's name was Violetta, a 
 name which she had learned in Italy 
 where she was born. 
 
 It grew dark, and the old woman 
 lighted the lamps which hung round 
 the pole of the tent. Minna gradually 
 stopped crying, and began to sing to her 
 child an old German song whose mono- 
 tonous rhythm soon put her to sleep. 
 Whereupon, after holding her awhile in 
 her arms, she laid her down on some 
 cushions in a corner. Scarcely had she 
 done so when the curtains of the tent 
 were thrown back, and the negro ex- 
 claimed in a tone of suppressed excite- 
 ment, " Nizameddin Bey!" 
 
 Cymon sprang forward to receive with 
 
 due respect his distinguished visitor, 
 
 and there entered a young man, whose 
 
 beauty and noble bearing so astonished 
 
 167
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 Minna, who had been taught that the 
 Turks were monsters, that for the mo- 
 ment she forgot every thing else and gazed 
 at him in silent wonder. Nizameddin 
 Bey was tall and graceful with the grace 
 of the Orient; he wore a white turban 
 round his helmet, and his robe of crimson 
 and gold brocade was thrown back, 
 disclosing a suit of silvered mail of 
 Damascus workmanship, and the hilt of 
 a jewelled scimiter. His black eyes, 
 full of fire, were turned at once to Minna 
 and rested on her with a look of delight 
 which at once pleased and frightened 
 her. He began to speak to Cymon in 
 Turkish. 
 
 "The eagles first," he said, "and the 
 vultures afterwards. The Turk has 
 fought the battle, and again the sly 
 Greek has carried off the fairest 
 prize." 
 
 "Ah, Bey Effendi," replied Cymon, 
 "the Turk is a soldier, but the Greek 
 is a man of commerce and trade. You 
 win wealth with the sword, but we earn 
 it peacefully on the counter and scales. 
 1 68
 
 My slave meets with my Lord's ap- 
 probation?" 
 
 " Yes, she is beautiful and a type that 
 I do not know. Surely not a Servian 
 peasant, though in the dress?" 
 
 "No, Bey Effendi, she is a German, 
 from the far shores of the Baltic, a 
 woman of the north whose youth and 
 beauty will not fade." 
 
 The Bey interrupted him with a 
 wave of his hand. "Your price?" he 
 said. 
 
 "One hundred Turkish pounds." 
 
 "And you bought her for twenty. 
 Our proverb says truly: 'One Jew is 
 worth seven Greeks.' " 
 
 "Yes, Bey Effendi, and the proverb 
 says also, 'one Greek is worth seven 
 Armenians,' rejoice then that I am only 
 a Greek." 
 
 Nizameddin Bey laughed. "Talking 
 is your own art,", he said. Then he 
 added: "Well, I will pay your price." 
 Suddenly his eye fell upon the sleeping 
 child. "And that is included in the 
 sum?" 
 
 169
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 "No, Bey Effendi, " said Cymon 
 hastily, "the child is not for sale." 
 
 "It must be. It is the law of the 
 Prophet that in the sale of captives the 
 mother must never be separated from 
 the child." 
 
 "Ah, Bey Effendi, that is a law for 
 you; but not for me, I am a Christian." 
 
 "You are a dog," said Nizameddin. 
 "The Christian religion teaches the 
 principles of humanity also, only by 
 such as you are they disregarded. 
 Ladislaus disregarded his treaty, and his 
 treachery has cost him his life." 
 
 Cymon turned pale and began to whine 
 and beg the Bey Effendi not to ask for 
 the child on which he hoped one day 
 to make his fortune. Suddenly he was 
 interrupted by Minna, who seeming to 
 grasp by instinct the import of the scene 
 rose from her place and throwing herself 
 on her knees before the Bey implored 
 him, if he took her to take also her child. 
 Nizameddin looked at her with flashing 
 eyes, and to her astonishment answered 
 her in a few words of Italian, bidding her 
 170
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 to be of good cheer and that she should 
 keep her child. Minna's eyes filled 
 with tears of joy, and seizing the Turk's 
 hand, she kissed it again and again. 
 
 Nizameddin smiled and then, turning 
 again to Cymon said : " Call my servant ; 
 you shall have the gold at once, a hun- 
 dred Turkish pounds for the mother 
 and child. " 
 
 Cymon unheeding the command con- 
 tinued to whine and beg the Bey Effendi 
 to consider, but the old woman went 
 hastily to the door and called in the Bey 
 Effendi's slave, a stalwart Nubian, who 
 carried his master's purse, a large bag 
 of knitted silk strung with coral, through 
 whose meshes came the gleam of gold. 
 
 " A hundred pounds," said Nizameddin, 
 and the slave counted the sum carefully 
 out on a tray which stood on a folding 
 stool. Cymon still paid no attention, 
 but the old woman who watched the gold 
 pieces as a cat watches a mouse, seized 
 them at last in her claw-like fingers and 
 plunged them into a leather bag which 
 hung at her side. Then she went to the 
 171
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 bed, and taking up the sleeping child laid 
 her in Minna's arms, and signed to her 
 to go. But Minna stood still, not know- 
 ing what to do until the Bey took her 
 by the hand and led her out of the tent. 
 
 Then indeed Cymon threw himself 
 on the ground and screamed with rage. 
 "He has robbed me," he cried, "he has 
 robbed me; it is always so, the Turk 
 always tramples on and despoils the 
 Greek; that child would have made my 
 fortune," and he ended with a volley of 
 oaths. 
 
 "Be quiet," hissed his mother, "or 
 something worse will happen to you. 
 You know the Turk, and you know he 
 will take what he wants, and none can 
 withstand him. Look at the King of 
 Hungary lying dead on the field, and be 
 glad that the Bey has paid you the hun- 
 dred pounds. That gives you eighty 
 pounds profit, a good day's work, a 
 good day's work. " 
 
 And outside Nizameddin paused, and 
 holding Minna's hand in his, pointed 
 to the east where in the soft, clear, blue 
 172
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 sky, glimmered the silver crescent of the 
 new moon. 
 
 "Look, " he said, "the moon of Islam. 
 To-day you have lost all that made your 
 life ; from a free woman you are now a 
 slave. But fear not, as the crescent 
 rises in the East and silvers the world 
 with its light, so a new life begins for 
 you to-night." 
 
 Minna looked at him in wonder and 
 in admiration (for what woman can 
 resist beauty combined with chivalry?). 
 Was this the Turk whom she had been 
 taught to dread, the infidel with whom 
 one need hold no faith? Her husband 
 had been a Christian and a German like 
 herself, but never had he been a hand- 
 some and gallant gentleman like this, 
 and sometimes he had beaten her when 
 he was in wine. Still she had loved 
 him or thought so, which with so many 
 women is the same. 
 
 But now he was dead or at least dead 
 to her, and her life was changed for the 
 worse, or was it for the better? Un- 
 consciously she embraced the first 
 173
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 principle of Islam resignation to the 
 will of God. Minna knew no logic, but 
 one thing she knew, the Greek would 
 have robbed her of her child, and the 
 Turk had given it back to her. That 
 was enough! and as the Bey's black eyes 
 met hers, she smiled. And he under- 
 stood at once the workings of her simple 
 mind and, stooping suddenly, kissed her 
 ripe red lips. 
 
 The sound of Turkish music reached 
 them, wild and sweet. Lanterns flashed 
 like fireflies through the night. The air 
 was soft and laden with the perfume 
 of the yellow locust, and over all shone 
 the new moon of Islam. 
 
 II 
 
 Thirteen years had passed since the 
 battle of Varna, and again it was 
 the month of May. Again the yel- 
 low locusts were in blossom, and the 
 meadows full of flowers, but the world 
 was changed. The sword of Murad had 
 been sheathed, and Murad was in the 
 174
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 tomb while a greater reigned in his 
 stead! The Greek Empire was a thing 
 of the past, and the seventy Emperors 
 of the East, of whom one was both great 
 and good, had fretted through their parts 
 and dragged them out for more than 
 eleven hundred years, and were all gone 
 to the shades at last. Four years ago 
 Constantine the Thirteenth and last, had 
 wound up the long r61e. Mohammed 
 the Second had taken Constantinople; 
 and in what had been for centuries, 
 the capital of Christendom and of the 
 world, the cross had given place to the 
 crescent, and the Empire of Constantine 
 the First was the prize of the victorious 
 Turks. 
 
 Santa Sophia was now a mosque, but 
 the Sultan had disdained the palaces of 
 the Emperors, stained with so many 
 crimes, and so much blood, and while the 
 Serail was in construction, resided prin- 
 cipally as before, at Adrianople in his 
 wonderful palace of Jehan Numa (the 
 watch-tower of the world). But now 
 he was on the Bosphorus and living in a 
 175
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 kiosk on the mountain above Scutari 
 on the Asiatic shore, a kiosk which 
 has long since disappeared, but on 
 whose site now stands the white palace 
 of Prince Yousef Ezeddin. 
 
 It was the hour of noon. The Sultan 
 had ridden out with his train in the 
 morning and had not yet returned, and 
 a dreamy stillness brooded over the 
 golden kiosk. In the anteroom over- 
 looking the court-yard, a few eunuchs 
 and pages were lounging, and by a 
 window stood a man in Greek costume 
 in whom we meet again the slave dealer, 
 Cymon. His eyes were fixed on a 
 group in the court-yard below. A black 
 slave, his own, whom we have seen at 
 Varna holding the bridle of an ass, on 
 which sat a woman wrapped in a black 
 ferejeh and shrouded, all but her eyes, 
 in what is now known as the Persian 
 veil, thick and black as night. 
 
 So absorbed was he that he started 
 
 violently when some one touched him 
 
 on the arm and called his name. It 
 
 was a black slave, and as the Greek's 
 
 176
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 memory was good, a moment's scrutiny 
 told him who he was, the favourite slave 
 of Nizameddin Bey. 
 
 " Well, " he said, " Halim, how fares it 
 with you? It is long since we met." 
 
 "Good," replied the slave, "my 
 master is in favour with the Sultan, and 
 I am in favour with my master. You 
 and I met last at Varna. " 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Cymon, "many 
 things are changed since then. But tell 
 me I sold your master a slave then, a 
 woman of the Franks ; what has become 
 of her?" 
 
 " Oh," said the slave, " you did her a 
 great service when you sold her to my 
 master. He made her his wife soon 
 afterwards, and he has taken no other. 
 She is beautiful, and her beauty does not 
 fade, and he still loves her as at first." 
 
 " Has she borne him children? " 
 
 " Yes, three, our Selim Bey is twelve 
 years old and Nazli Hanoum is nine, 
 and little Edhem Bey is five. God has 
 smiled on my master in everything." 
 
 " And," said Cymon, " she had a child, 
 177
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 whom Nizameddin Bey took from me, a 
 little girl." 
 
 " Yes, poor child, I think it was nine 
 years ago, we were at my master's house 
 at Broussa, and she was playing in the 
 garden, and what happened we do not 
 know, but she must have fallen into 
 the water and been swept away, for 
 we never found her. And the same 
 day our little Lady Nazli was born, so 
 Allah took away one daughter from my 
 mistress and gave her another; wonder- 
 ful are the ways of Allah ! " 
 
 Cymon smiled a strange smile, and 
 rubbed his hands as at some pleasing 
 recollection, and at this moment the 
 door opened, and no less a personage 
 than the Kisslar Aga entered the room. 
 Every one rose and bowed profoundly, 
 and Cymon striding hastily forward 
 seized the black hand which glittered 
 with jewels, and pressed it to his lips. 
 
 The Kisslar Aga was tall and of 
 
 majestic bearing, with an intelligent 
 
 countenance, bright black eyes, and on 
 
 each cheek the three scars, which are the 
 
 178
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 mark of an Ethiopian slave. He wore a 
 long robe of blue satin embroidered in 
 silver, a jewelled girdle and dagger, a 
 double chain of sequins round his neck, 
 and a turban of spotless white. 
 
 "Well, Cymon, " he said, "have you 
 brought me your pearl of beauty?" 
 
 " Yes, Aga Effendi, may your years 
 be a thousand and full of honours. She 
 waits, well guarded, in the court-yard 
 below." 
 
 "It is well," said the Kisslar Aga. 
 " I had promised her to the Padishah 
 this evening. Our Lady Sultana is in 
 Adrianople, and there is great lack of 
 beauty in the golden kiosk." 
 
 "That lack shall be no longer," said 
 Cymon, and going to the window he 
 signalled to his slave below, and in a 
 few moments he and his veiled charge 
 appeared in the anteroom. 
 
 " There, Prince of Agas, you have seen 
 and know what a rose among maidens 
 I bring you ; truly you buy her cheaply, 
 for she is worth her weight in gold. " 
 
 The Kisslar Aga did not answer this 
 179
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 remark, but turning to a slave who 
 followed him, took from him a bag of 
 gold and handed it to Cymon, and gave 
 him his hand again to kiss. This the 
 Greek did with great devotion, and many 
 protestations of eternal fidelity to his 
 service, and prayers that he might be 
 recommended to the Padishah. 
 
 The Kisslar Aga accustomed to adu- 
 lation at length drew his hand away, 
 and with a gracious word or two of leave- 
 taking, took his new purchase, who re- 
 mained perfectly silent and motionless, 
 by the hand, and led her out of the room. 
 And now Cymon's hour had come. 
 Approaching the slave of Nizameddin 
 Bey, he whispered in his ear: " I have a 
 message for your master. Tell him that 
 Cymon, the Greek, has just sold to the 
 Sultan the most beautiful maid in Con- 
 stantinople. The portiere of the Sul- 
 tan's private apartments has fallen 
 behind her, and her price is in Cymon's 
 hands. Tell him that her name is 
 Violetta, and that she is that child 
 whom he took from me unjustly at 
 1 80
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 Varna, that she was not drowned at 
 Broussa, but that Cymon took back his 
 own. The Turk is a soldier, but the 
 Greek is a man of business, courage 
 conquers in the beginning, but wit and 
 wisdom in the end." 
 
 " It will not be well for you when my 
 master hears this," said the slave. 
 
 " I fear not, he may seek me, but he 
 will not find me. You know the saying, 
 'The Turk to fight the Greek to run 
 away.' Give him my message; I have 
 waited long for my revenge, but I have, 
 it at last." 
 
 Ill 
 
 In the golden kiosk, the last room of 
 the Sultan's apartments hung like a 
 lantern of rainbow glass far out in the 
 air, its crescent curve of windows com- 
 manding the East, South, and West. 
 The walls of this apartment were tiled 
 half way up, those green and white tiles 
 always precious, and now, alas, so rare. 
 
 The upper half was stuccoed in 
 181
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 arabesques of crimson and gold, which 
 were repeated in the ceiling with a cor- 
 nice of honeycomb cells. A magnifi- 
 cent Persian carpet covered the floor, 
 and a divan ran around under the win- 
 dows covered with crimson embroidered 
 in gold. At one end of the divan stood 
 a richly inlaid reading-desk, holding an 
 illuminated copy of the Koran, and at 
 the other a small table of the same work- 
 manship, on which stood a silver dish of 
 fruit, a tall enamelled flacon, an enamel 
 cup, and a crystal bowl full of red roses. 
 At the lower end of the room two chests 
 of black carved oak, evidently the spoil 
 of some Greek sacristy, flanked the 
 arched door, which was hung with a 
 portiere of crimson and gold. From 
 the ceiling, suspended by crimson cords, 
 hung five silver lamps. 
 
 The windows which were glass ara- 
 besques and seemed, when the sun 
 shone through them, mosaics of jewels, 
 were now all open to the evening air. 
 At one which faced the west, a tall 
 graceful figure half stood, half knelt, 
 182
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 on the divan, watching the sunset. He 
 was a young man in his twenty-seventh 
 year with all the fire of youth, the vigour 
 of a pure and noble race, and that high 
 consciousness of power which a sover- 
 eign absolute, whose word is life or death, 
 alone can feel. A Sultan by birth, and 
 soldier and leader of men by the gift of 
 God, Mohammed the Second stood on a 
 pinnacle of glory which it has seldom 
 been the fate of man to reach. 
 
 Here in the silence of his own apart- 
 ments, armour and weapons laid aside, 
 the Sultan was attired in a long robe of 
 brocade of green and silver, so brilliant 
 that it seemed a tissue of emeralds and 
 diamonds. In his jewelled girdle was 
 visible that dagger which may be seen 
 in the treasury to-day, the handle of 
 which is a solid mass of diamonds and 
 the end one great emerald. He wore a 
 turban of India muslin clasped in front 
 with the Imperial aigrette; a collar of 
 diamonds and emeralds encircled his 
 neck, and on his right hand sparkled one 
 jewel alone, his signet ring. But all 
 183
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 this splendour was subordinate to the 
 majesty of the Sultan's presence, and 
 the jewels themselves were subdued 
 by the light and fire of the Sultan's 
 eyes. 
 
 Mohammed's mother had been a 
 Servian princess, his father represented 
 the best blood of the Turks, and yet he 
 in form and feature seemed an Arab 
 of that type, free and desert-born, than 
 which the world can show none more 
 manly or more perfect. The nose was 
 aquiline, the chin strong and noble, the 
 mouth firm and beautiful, and the black 
 eyes like stars, whose glance could 
 pierce, it seemed, through armour or the 
 heart. Every feature indicated the Arab, 
 and Mohammed the Second might have 
 been one of the early khalifs come to 
 life again, a man not only born a king, 
 but cast by nature in her most kingly 
 mould. 
 
 The scene below him riveted the Sul- 
 tan's gaze. Dark cypress woods de- 
 scended from the kiosk to the sparkling 
 waters of the Bosphorus, on whose 
 184
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 other shore, among cypress trees again, 
 his new palace rose as if by magic on 
 the ruins of that which had been the 
 palace of the Caesars. Behind loomed 
 Santa Sophia, with the seven domes of 
 Justinian and the four minarets of 
 Mohammed, on which glittered four 
 golden crescents. The greatest church 
 the Christian world had known, a 
 mosque! The cross supplanted by the 
 new moon of Islam! And as Moham- 
 med's eyes rested upon the emblems of 
 his faith, they flashed with pleasure, 
 for the love of his religion burned in his 
 heart, and he held no conquest greater 
 than that of Santa Sophia. 
 
 Beyond all this, behind the cypresses 
 and the almond, and the Judas, trees in 
 bloom, the sea of Marmora spread like a 
 sheet of silver, the islands on its breast 
 glowing like jewels, and still beyond rose 
 the mountains, and above them all the 
 snowy crest of Mount Olympus, far 
 away in Greece. And then the setting 
 sun, the rose and green and purple 
 clouds, and the golden evening light 
 185
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 which turned it all to a vision of en- 
 chantment. 
 
 The portiere rustled, and there was 
 the whisper of a soft step on the soft 
 carpet. The Sultan turned and found 
 the Kisslar Aga before him. 
 
 "I had not called you, Selim, " said 
 Mohammed. 
 
 "No, Padishah," replied the eunuch, 
 " I came uncalled, but always in the 
 service of my Lord and the desire to give 
 him pleasure, and if I have presumed to 
 divert from the sunset his imperial eyes 
 it is that they may gaze on something 
 still more beautiful." 
 
 " Ah, yes, " the Sultan said ; " you are a 
 faithful servant, Selim, I remember," 
 and his eyes flashed as when he had 
 looked upon the crescents. "Where is 
 she?" 
 
 " In the next room, "replied the Kisslar 
 Aga, " waiting the Padishah's pleasure. " 
 
 "Bring her to me," said Mohammed. 
 
 Selim bowed low, and swiftly leaving 
 the apartment, returned again in a 
 moment leading by the hand a young 
 186
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 girl covered from head to foot with a 
 silver bridal veil. Mohammed, with 
 the eagerness of youth, advanced to 
 meet her. Then, as the eunuch touched 
 the veil, "no, no," he said, "go, Selim, 
 I need you no longer, my hand will lift 
 the veil." 
 
 The Kisslar Aga bowed again, and the 
 young girl, who had been reared for this 
 one destiny from the rosebud to the rose, 
 was left alone with her master, the 
 Sultan, ruler of Islam, and first and 
 greatest sovereign of the world. 
 
 Mohammed paused a moment, and 
 then slowly lifted the veil and threw it 
 back so that it fell upon the carpet, and 
 Violetta stood before him like the moon 
 out of a cloud. Then he drew back and 
 looked at her and smiled. The evening 
 light fell upon her through the open 
 window and made a glory of her golden 
 curls which, crowned with a wreath of 
 blood-red roses and dark leaves, flowed 
 over her shoulders like the sun glades 
 on the water. 
 
 Her milk-white skin, her rosy cheeks 
 187
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 and scarlet lips, and the soft rounded 
 contours of her form all charmed the 
 Sultan's senses. But that which charmed 
 him most (for he was used to slaves who 
 trembled and looked down) was Violetta's 
 courage, for she raised her eyes to his, 
 such dark-lashed violet eyes, as he had 
 never seen, and looked at him, not like a 
 slave, but like a princess. 
 
 Selim, whose art was to enhance the 
 charms of beauty, had known how to 
 dress this northern Venus. A caftan of 
 turquoise satin embroidered in gold was 
 clasped about her waist with a golden 
 girdle studded with turquoises, and cut 
 in a heart shape to show the round- 
 ed whiteness of her neck and bosom, 
 like the vest which Bosnian women 
 wear to-day. Below the caftan, which 
 reached only to the knee, were wide 
 trousers of pink and gold brocade, and 
 pink slippers stiff with gold and pearls. 
 Her arms were bare from the elbow, but 
 clasped by no bracelets, and she wore 
 no jewel anywhere but in her girdle, 
 and only the red roses in her hair. A 
 1 88
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 moment passed in silence while they 
 stood looking at each other, and then 
 the Sultan spoke: 
 
 " I have seen many women," he said, 
 "but none like you; whence do you 
 come?" 
 
 Violetta's cheeks flushed rosier red, 
 but her voice did not tremble as she 
 answered: "Padishah, they tell me 
 that I came from a far country in the 
 north, beside a wild blue sea, but I 
 cannot remember it, and know no land 
 but this." 
 
 "What is your name?" 
 
 "My name is Violetta, Padishah." 
 
 " A name that suits you well; I think 
 it means the blue-eyed flower of spring. 
 
 "The houris have black eyes, but 
 they are for the faithful whose swords 
 have conquered the next world as well 
 as this. 
 
 "Their home is Paradise. 
 
 "The peris belong to this earth, and 
 though they die with it, they are made to 
 give delight. They must have blue eyes 
 like yours!" 
 
 189
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 He looked at her again in silence, and 
 she stood before him flushed with the 
 excitement of the moment, and the 
 mingled feelings of joy and fear that 
 she had found favour in his sight. She 
 appeared beautiful as the peris to whom 
 he had likened her, fresh and radiant 
 as morning and spring. 
 
 The Sultan was young and as he 
 looked at her, a strange new feeling 
 rose in his heart, a feeling which he had 
 never known before. He had had many 
 slaves, and most of them had pleased 
 him, and satisfied him forthe time. But 
 he had held them lightly, for despite 
 his youth, his mind was set on conquest, 
 and he had dreamed, not of love, but 
 of power and glory. Once only had he 
 unveiled a princess, the bride whom the 
 great Murad had given him, seeking 
 to make him forget in a softer passion, 
 his too great ambition. She was the 
 daughter of a Turcoman ameer. She too 
 had pleased him, and he had shown her 
 all that respect and courtesy due a wife, 
 and though six years had passed, he had 
 190
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 taken no other, and she was still his only 
 Sultana. But love was not the cause, 
 for, except for the fact that she remained 
 and would hold always the first place, 
 and that they came and went, the 
 Ameer's daughter was no more to him 
 than his Circassian, Greek, or Persian 
 slaves. 
 
 But now the ambition of his life was 
 satisfied. Constantinople was his. From 
 the Danube to the Mediterranean all was 
 his, and in Asia the whole Empire 
 of the Turks. There were for the mo- 
 ment no more worlds to conquer. Na- 
 ture and youth reasserted themselves, 
 and Mohammed was ready for the one 
 great passion which he had not known. 
 Now his destiny had brought him this 
 golden haired maid from the Baltic, 
 this violet-eyed valkyr. And suddenly 
 there rose a question to his lips which 
 he would never before have thought of 
 asking. 
 
 "Violetta," he said, "are you glad to 
 be here in the golden kiosk? Are you 
 willing to be mine?" 
 191
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 Violetta looked at him in surprise. 
 Could it be that the Sultan could ask 
 such a question. 
 
 "Padishah," she replied, "I am your 
 slave." 
 
 " Yes, " said Mohammed, " you are 
 my slave, and I need ask no questions, 
 for I may do with you as I will. But 
 still, though it seems strange to you, I 
 will have another answer. 
 
 "Suppose that you were not a slave 
 but free, and I a man as other men, no 
 more, and by some accident, against our 
 customs, such as are related in all ro- 
 mantic tales, we had seen each other " 
 
 The Sultan paused, the r61e was new 
 to him and for a moment the Conqueror 
 of Constantinople was at a loss for words. 
 
 "And then suppose I said, 'Violetta 
 will you be mine? ' How would you 
 answer?" 
 
 " Oh, Padishah, " said Violetta, trem- 
 bling now and looking down indeed, 
 " you honour me too much, I am your 
 slave. " 
 
 " I have told you that I do not want 
 192
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 a slave's answer," said Mohammed. 
 " Speak, what do you fear ? " 
 
 Then Violetta lifted her eyes again 
 to his and said: "Myself, Padishah." 
 
 And now the Sultan flushed with 
 pleasure as if he had been indeed no 
 more than other men. 
 
 "Fear not yourself," he said, "but 
 answer me. Tell me what would be 
 your answer, 'yes' or 'no.'" 
 
 "Then," said Violetta, clasping her 
 hands and blushing like the sunset, 
 "may my Lord forgive me if I seem too 
 bold, surely it is not for the Padishah 
 to ask in vain. My answer would be 
 'yes.' " 
 
 And then hiding her face with her 
 hands she stood before him like a dis- 
 covered culprit, for she well knew that 
 her answer had been a confession of 
 love, love quick as the lightning's flash, 
 as all Oriental love must be, and kindled 
 in her heart by the first glance of the 
 imperial eyes. 
 
 Mohammed smiled, and his eyes 
 flashed with triumph and delight, and 
 13 193
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 something wanner which he had never 
 shown in them before. Taking Vio- 
 letta's hands, one in each of his, he drew 
 them down and held them. 
 
 "Look at me again," he said, "it 
 is not often that I find eyes that meet 
 my own like yours." 
 
 And Violetta looked at him again, this 
 time with her heart in her eyes. And 
 suddenly Mohammed took her in his 
 arms and kissed her. She had fulfilled 
 her destiny. 
 
 The evening light grew softer and the 
 sunset gold changed first to red and 
 then to violet. The scent of flowers 
 and the whirr and twitter of birds fly- 
 ing homeward came through the open 
 windows, and then suddenly the sky 
 flushed again with the light of the after- 
 glow. The Sultan led his new slave 
 into the glass lantern, and pointed first 
 to Europe, then to Asia. 
 
 "Look," he said, "my Empire. The 
 world holds nothing richer or more 
 beautiful, and I have made it mine. " 
 
 Violetta looked for a moment at the 
 194
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 fair scene below her and then at him. 
 She did not wonder, for it seemed to her 
 but natural that he should conquer all 
 things. 
 
 "Allah," he said, "has given me all 
 that I have asked, and I have had all 
 things but one, and now you have been 
 sent to me to bring me that. " 
 
 "Oh, Padishah," said Violetta, look- 
 ing at him half in hope, half in fear, 
 "what is it that I have brought you?" 
 
 "Something," said Mohammed, "that 
 I have neither known nor valued, and 
 that you alone have taught me love. " 
 
 A smile like sunlight shone on Vio- 
 letta's lips and in her eyes. That she 
 was destined for the Sultan she had 
 known for long, and she had thought 
 that she might please him, without 
 knowing whether she wished it so or 
 not. But that he should love her, was 
 more than she had ever hoped or 
 dreamed. 
 
 Then, as by the magic of some charm, 
 she seemed to lose all maidenly timidity, 
 and all remembrance that he was the 
 195
 
 The New Moon of Isla 
 
 Sultan, and she his slave. All her soul 
 filled with one passion only, she lifted 
 her white arms and clasped them around 
 his neck. And Mohammed, to whom 
 her boldness was a new delight, her 
 love a treasure, strange and sweet, 
 clasped her against his heart and kissed 
 her, kisses without number, burning 
 and tender as the stars of a tropical 
 night. 
 
 Slowly and softly the afterglow faded, 
 and in the woods and gardens the night- 
 ingales began to sing. One by one the 
 stars came out, and in the East there 
 rose in the pale blue and glimmered 
 through the open jewel casement, a 
 silver crescent, the new moon of Islam ! 
 
 IV 
 
 The crescent that had silvered the 
 May night, which for Mohammed was 
 the dawn of love, waxed to the full and 
 waned. The blossoms of the fruit trees 
 fell like stars setting in a dark sky, 
 and the orchard changed from pink and 
 196
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 white to green. The wistaria bloomed 
 over all in a glory of purple and faded, 
 giving place to the roses of June. And 
 when the next new moon shone, now 
 in the sky as rich and soft as turquoise, 
 Mohammed showed it to Violetta from 
 the window saying, "Look, the moon 
 of Islam! Twice dear to me now, for 
 since it shone on that first night, it is 
 the sign and symbol of our love. " 
 
 The word love was often spoken by 
 Mohammed now and came as naturally 
 from his lips as once the terms and com- 
 mands of war, which now were unuttered. 
 The time which had been fixed for his 
 return to Adrianople had come and 
 gone, and he still lingered in the golden 
 kiosk. Neither the Sultana nor any 
 of his Odalisques were summoned from 
 thence, but in the harem, Violetta, 
 surrounded by attendant slaves and 
 eunuchs, black and white, reigned with- 
 out a rival, supreme and alone. 
 
 Jewel merchants, silk merchants, gold- 
 smiths, and dealers in all that is rich 
 and rare, climbed the mountain with 
 197
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 their laden asses that the Sultan might 
 choose gifts for his favourite from their 
 stores, and Mohammed gave his gold, 
 as he did all things, with a royal hand 
 and laid the wealth of his Empire at 
 Violetta's feet. 
 
 She was grateful, but not spoiled by 
 all this splendour, for though these 
 bright and beautiful things delighted her 
 in themselves they delighted her still 
 more, because they were the Sultan's 
 gifts. The jewel which she prized the 
 most, and beside which all the others 
 were as nothing, was Mohammed's 
 love. She was happy, perfectly happy. 
 She loved the Sultan with all her heart, 
 and all the fresh young forces of her 
 nature. She lived in that love and in 
 the present only, without a thought for 
 either the future or the past. 
 
 The June moon waned also. Mid- 
 summer was past, but the heat waxed 
 instead of waning, and the third new 
 moon which marked the course of 
 royal love, shone in a breathless night, 
 blazing with stars and faint with sweet 
 198
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 perfume. Again Mohammed and Vio- 
 letta looked at it from the eastern 
 window. 
 
 "The moon of Islam waxes and 
 wanes," he said, "and goes and comes 
 again, but our love waxes only, and 
 grows ever more and more. " 
 
 "Yes," said Violetta, "though it was 
 so great at first, it seemed that it could 
 be no greater, so therefore it is like the 
 moon, for who has seen the crescent 
 only, dreams not of the moon's splen- 
 dour at the full. And we at first thought 
 that our love was all that love could be, 
 and now we know that it grows always 
 more and more. " 
 
 The golden kiosk was indeed a para- 
 dise of love in this golden summer-time. 
 But the realm of Mohammed extended 
 beyond its walls, and there was a scene 
 of growing discontent. The Turks, whose 
 victorious arms had made them the 
 terror of the world, were restless when 
 idle. The Viziers and Emirs, Pashas 
 and Bevs waited impatiently in their 
 palaces along the Bosphorus, where 
 199
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 everything reminded them of their con- 
 quests, their usual summons to the 
 presence of the Padishah. 
 
 Days passed and weeks, and no divan 
 was held. The Grand Vizier trans- 
 acted business in the Sultan's name, 
 and he or any other minister who sought 
 from necessity an audience of the Padi- 
 shah was received impatiently, and with 
 all haste dismissed. The Sultan rode 
 no more a-hunting or a-hawking. His 
 pages and attendants sulked in the 
 court-yard and the ante-chambers, their 
 occupation gone. Worst of all, the 
 Janissaries missed their leader and 
 murmured at his absence, and their 
 murmurs rolled like thunder through 
 the Turkish Empire. 
 
 Mohammed, they said, had forgot- 
 ten that he was the successor of the 
 Prophet, and the leader and ruler of 
 Islam, whether in peace or war. He had 
 forgotten his soldiers, his people, his 
 Empire. His sword was rusting in the 
 scabbard, and he was the slave of love. 
 These murmurs reached the gates of the 
 
 20Q
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 golden kiosk, and entered, but only 
 into the court-yard and the outer 
 chambers. 
 
 The Kisslar Aga heard them, but only 
 shook his head and said that he would 
 not disturb the pleasure of the Padishah, 
 nor should any one else, that the Janis- 
 saries were ever troublesome and dis- 
 contented, and that time would set all 
 right. And the word of the Kisslar Aga 
 is law in the Serail. 
 
 Time went on and the Sultan knew 
 nothing, for he had in truth forgotten 
 his Janissaries and his Empire. The 
 third moon waxed and waned. The 
 storm gathered, rolling up from the 
 East and the West, from Europe and 
 Asia; it darkened and blackened and 
 burst. And passed away. 
 
 Brilliant and triumphant as the ca- 
 reer of Mohammed had been, he still had 
 learned that fortune, like the moon, 
 had her reverses which were not bright. 
 Twice the great Murad had abdicated 
 the sovereignty, and placed his son upon 
 the throne, and twice had he resumed 
 
 20J
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 his power. Mohammed knew that Allah 
 gives and takes, and now when came this 
 trouble with his people (his first and 
 last), he was weighed in the balance and 
 not found wanting. 
 
 It was a sultry day late in July when 
 came at last the Grand Vizier, and told 
 the Padishah what he should long ago 
 have told, that now the discontent of 
 the Imperial Janissaries had reached 
 the point where the next step must be 
 revolt. The Sultan listened in silence, 
 pained at the thought that his soldiers 
 could turn against him, and then per- 
 haps with self-reproach that he had 
 neglected his duties as their leader, 
 perhaps with anger also, but without 
 fear, for that he knew not, of the result. 
 Then he dismissed the Grand Vizier 
 saying only, "let my soldiers come, I 
 will meet them." 
 
 He remained awhile wrapt in deep 
 thought and fighting a battle with 
 himself. It was the afternoon, and 
 slowly on the stillness grew a muffled 
 sound, first distant and then near and 
 202
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 nearer, the tramp of marching feet. 
 The Sultan sat alone, and like the waves 
 of a spring flood slowly, resistlessly, 
 they came and closed around his palace, 
 like a ring of steel, the flower, the pride, 
 the terror of his Empire, the Janissaries ! 
 
 The portiere of the apartment was 
 pushed aside, and the Kisslar Aga 
 rushed breathless and panic-stricken 
 into the Imperial presence. 
 
 "Padishah, Padishah!" he cried, "the 
 Janissaries! the Janissaries!" 
 
 "My soldiers," said Mohammed, "let 
 them await till I have time for them; 
 first send me my Violetta." 
 
 The summons was unnecessary, for 
 at that moment, Violetta, who had 
 heard the tumult in her apartments, 
 came unbidden to the Sultan's presence, 
 and full of love and fear threw herself 
 on her knees before him, just where the 
 light of the setting sun fell full upon her, 
 bathing her in a golden glory. 
 
 Mohammed looked at her in silence 
 for a moment. She was more beautiful 
 than she had been at first, more radiant. 
 203
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 The change in her was like that of 
 spring to summer, that change which is 
 wrought by love alone; even the tints 
 of her attire were brighter, for now she 
 wore the colours of the Turkish Empire, 
 blood-red and green and gold. Her gir- 
 dle clasped her like a jewelled rainbow, 
 and her wreath of roses was replaced 
 by a tiara of emeralds and rubies. The 
 Kisslar Aga withdrew, and they were 
 alone, and then Mohammed rising 
 lifted her from her knees, and clasped 
 her to his heart. 
 
 "Oh, my Lord," she said, "what is 
 this tumult?" 
 
 But he kissed her first, and then 
 answered carelessly, "my soldiers, Vio- 
 letta; they say that Mohammed has 
 forgotten them, and clamour for their 
 leader." 
 
 "Oh, my Lord," said Violetta, "is 
 that all?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Mohammed, "that is 
 
 all, but it is true; I had forgotten them. 
 
 These last three moons I have been a 
 
 lover only, Violetta. I have neglected, 
 
 204
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 forgotten, given up all else for you, and I 
 might do so still were I a man like other 
 men; but I am not, and now I find that 
 love, or love at least like this, is the one 
 thing denied the Sultan of the Turks. " 
 
 "Oh! My Lord," said Violetta, filled 
 with a sudden fear, "what would you 
 do?" 
 
 And Mohammed answered: "It has 
 been said that man is first a man, and 
 then a king, but it is not true. He to 
 whom Allah has given sovereign power 
 is first a king." 
 
 "My Lord is right," said Violetta, 
 forgetting her fear of the moment before 
 in her admiration of him, "and as a 
 king, Mohammed will never fail. " 
 
 "I cannot," said Mohammed, "and 
 now Violetta, I go to meet my Janissaries, 
 but first I wished for you, for one more 
 kiss." 
 
 He stopped and looked at her for a 
 moment with a long lingering look, and 
 then went on : 
 
 "Violetta, you know, for I have told 
 you many times, but I will tell you still 
 205
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 once more, you are the only woman I 
 have loved. " 
 
 "Yes, my Lord," she said, "I know, 
 Allah has given me your love. " 
 
 "Then, Violetta, remember this al- 
 ways." 
 
 "Oh, my Lord," she said, "could I 
 forget that you have loved me ? Were I 
 banished from your presence and lived 
 on without you for a hundred years, that 
 memory would be my only thought, not 
 only here, but I would take it with me to 
 Paradise. " 
 
 "To Paradise," repeated Mohammed; 
 "yes, Violetta, and not the memory only 
 but the love itself. You alone have my 
 love here, and you shall take it with you 
 to Paradise." 
 
 Then he took her in his arms and 
 kissed her with many kisses. 
 
 The impatient shouts of the Janissaries 
 and the clatter of their arms came 
 through the windows, breaking the 
 wonted stillness of the golden kiosk, 
 and at last Mohammed unclasped the 
 arms that would have held him, and 
 206
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 with one last kiss left her. Then walking 
 through the length of his apartments to 
 one which had a balcony, he stepped out 
 through the window and showed himself 
 to the Janissaries, suddenly and alone. 
 
 There was the breathless silence of 
 a moment. As though by magic the 
 tumult was stilled and awed by his 
 presence, and then Mohammed spoke: 
 
 "My Janissaries have come to me 
 uncalled; what is it that they seek?" 
 
 "Our leader," cried a voice, and here 
 and there was heard " Chokyosha Padi- 
 shah ! " more perhaps from force of habit 
 than intent, and then an undistinguish- 
 able tumult of cries, till at last Mo- 
 hammed made them hear that one of 
 them should speak for all. 
 
 Thereupon stepped forward just be- 
 low the balcony a giant, Hassan by 
 name, he who had been the first to scale 
 the wall of Constantinople, and whose 
 prestige in consequence was only 
 equalled by his boldness. 
 
 "Chokyosha Padishah!" he said, and 
 made the salute. 
 
 207
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 Mohammed looked at him, then let his 
 glance sweep the round of the tumultuous 
 gathering of the most splendid soldiers 
 that the world then knew, than which 
 it has known no better. Pride flashed 
 in his eyes, and a flush mantled to his 
 cheek. He had forgotten these his 
 Janissaries, he had not seen them for 
 three moons, or thought of them, and 
 now they came as mutineers and rebels, 
 but they still were his. He knew how 
 well they loved him, and (so contradic- 
 tory is the human heart) he felt perhaps 
 for the first time how dear they were to 
 him. 
 
 "Hassan," he said at length, "you 
 were the first to plant a Moslem foot 
 on the walls of Constantinople. I had 
 not thought that you would also be the 
 first to turn against your Lord. " 
 
 "Padishah," said Hassan, "I am not 
 against my Lord. Neither are these; 
 we are faithful subjects and soldiers. 
 No one is against the Padishah but 
 himself." 
 
 "Boldly spoken," said the Sultan, 
 208
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 "but remember, Hassan, there are bar- 
 riers higher than those of Constanti- 
 nople." 
 
 "Padishah," replied the undaunted 
 Hassan, "if we speak boldly, it is be- 
 cause we have earned the right. You 
 indeed have led us to victory, but our 
 swords have carved your Empire. Our 
 lives are devoted to your service. We 
 may not marry. We have no homes, 
 no wives, no children, no ties like other 
 men. Padishah! the Janissaries live and 
 fight and die for you alone!" 
 
 It was all true; Mohammed did not 
 answer, but his hand, which clasped the 
 railing of the balcony, trembled with a 
 sudden strong emotion. Confused cries 
 interrupted the oration of the Janissary 
 for a few moments, but then he obtained 
 silence and went on. 
 
 "Padishah, you have led us to 
 victory, you have loved and prized us, 
 and we have always been ready to give 
 our lives for you. But now, Padishah, 
 all is changed. You have forgotten your 
 soldiers, we see your face no more, you 
 
 14 209
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 are shut up in your palace like the khalif 
 of Bagdad in the khalifate's decline. 
 You care no more for your Empire, 
 your soldiers, your people. Your sword 
 is rusting in the scabbard, and you are 
 the slave of love." 
 
 The portiere rustled behind Moham- 
 med, and the Kisslar Aga appeared 
 beside him trembling with fright. "Oh, 
 Padishah," he whispered with that 
 familiarity permitted to his office, "con- 
 tent the Janissaries; it is a question of 
 your life and crown." 
 
 "Am I a slave," replied Mohammed, 
 "to tremble at threats? Shall I fear 
 my own soldiers? No, I will die when 
 it is the will of God, but not by their 
 hands, nor will I lose my sceptre, and 
 what I will do is not for them, but for 
 myself." 
 
 "Padishah," cried Hassan, 1 "the 
 leader of the Janissaries must be a 
 soldier, not a recluse of the harem. 
 Are you and will you be our leader still 
 
 See Appendix III. 
 
 210
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 or not? We have come here to-day to 
 ask this question, and to receive your 
 answer, Padishah. " 
 
 Mohammed folded his arms and looked 
 at his rebellious soldiers with a glance 
 which awed them into silence, with all 
 the pride and fire of his Imperial race 
 and his Imperial nature. 
 
 Then he said, his voice clear and calm 
 in the sudden stillness: "You shall 
 have my answer. " 
 
 Turning he whispered something in 
 Selim's ear, and the eunuch in response 
 disappeared through the window, and in 
 silence the Sultan and soldiers waited. 
 Then the curtain was lifted again, and 
 Selim reappeared with a female figure 
 wrapped in a silver veil. 
 
 Mohammed drew her to him and 
 quickly, as if he feared to hesitate, tore 
 off her veil, and showed her to the 
 Janissaries in all her beauty. The 
 last rays of the sunset fell upon her, and 
 all eyes turned to her and rested there; 
 Mohammed's also. She lifted her eyes 
 to his and ceased to tremble; for she 
 211
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 read something there which made her 
 forget herself. 
 
 The fierce soldiers surrounded them 
 like a stormy sea. The silence caused 
 by the surprise of the Sultan's action in 
 unveiling his favourite before them gave 
 way to a tumult of confused and in- 
 articulate cries. But in the midst of 
 all this storm and tumult Mohammed 
 and Violetta were still for a moment 
 alone. Neither spoke, but Mohammed 
 clasped his left arm around her with 
 one long last look and then with his 
 right hand he drew the emerald hilted 
 dagger from his belt. The Janissaries 
 saw the blade flash in the air, but Vio- 
 letta looked only in her Imperial lover's 
 eyes and saw it not, nor knew her destiny 
 till he had plunged it into her heart. 
 
 A great shout arose which seemed to 
 rend the air, but Violetta heard it not. 
 Her lips curled in a smile, as if all fear 
 was past, and hope remained. Her 
 eyes clung to Mohammed's, and with 
 one last look of love, she passed from this 
 world to the other.
 
 The New Moon of Islam 
 
 Still holding her, the Sultan turned 
 to his soldiers, and raising his dagger in 
 the air that all might see it was red, he 
 cried: "Mohammed is not the slave 
 of love. " 
 
 And now the soldiers' shouts were 
 cries of joy, and the air trembled to the 
 sound of "Chokyosha Padishah!" 
 
 The sun had set, and as Mohammed 
 turned his eyes from West to East, a 
 glimmering light appeared behind the 
 mountains. As if spell-bound, he gazed 
 and slowly, slowly, pale, as a soul as- 
 cending into heaven, cold and bright, 
 there rose and glittered in the summer 
 night, a silver crescent, the new moon 
 of Islam. 1 
 
 1 See Appendix IV. 
 
 213
 
 The Heart of Bosnia
 
 THE HEART OF BOSNIA 
 
 IT was the month of August in the 
 1 year 1815; the scene, Bosnia. Two 
 months before the fate of Europe had 
 been decided by the battle of Waterloo. 
 The allies were resting like tigers after 
 their bloody feast, and there was an 
 interim in history. 
 
 In Turkey alone, the fall of Napoleon 
 made little difference. Mahmoud, the 
 reformer, sat on the Ottoman throne, 
 but the reforms which he afterwards 
 carried out so successfully were not 
 yet inaugurated. The Empire was torn 
 with internal dissensions, and the only 
 person who really reigned, and that 
 only in his own provinces, was Ali 
 Tepelenti, the terrible Pacha of Yanina. 
 
 Constant outbreaks occurred. Fire 
 and sword ravaged not only the distant 
 217
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 provinces, but held sway in Constanti- 
 nople itself, where the Sultan was often 
 a prisoner inside the walls of the Serail. 
 It was the darkest hour of the Turkish 
 Empire, the last days of the Janissaries. 
 
 It was the afternoon and a troop of 
 Spahis was riding up the valley of the 
 Verbas, the forest-clad mountains rising 
 like dark green walls on either side, and 
 the wild river dashing down between. 
 The road was narrow, and the Spahis 
 rode in a long line and at their head their 
 leader, Abul Abbas Bey. 
 
 This Abul Abbas, thus renamed, was 
 not a Turk, but an Albanian Prince, who 
 had been taken prisoner in childhood, 
 adopted by the Sultan Selim, and 
 brought up with his son Mahmoud. 
 The two young men had been indeed 
 like brothers and were still, though the 
 one now sat upon the throne, and the 
 other followed the changing fortunes 
 of war. 
 
 Abul Abbas was a handsome young 
 man with all the wild dark beauty of 
 his race: the olive skin, the bright black 
 218
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 eyes, the jet black hair and curled 
 moustache, the fine clear cut features 
 and teeth like pearls. Fierce and grace- 
 ful as a panther, hot blooded, warm 
 hearted, generous, and brave, he was a 
 soldier by nature. 
 
 A Turk in all things else, he wore the 
 magnificent Albanian costume, which 
 suited him to perfection : the tight-fitting 
 jacket or crimson velvet embroidered 
 in gold, the white kilt and loose white 
 sleeves, yellow morocco shoes and crim- 
 son velvet leggings, stiff with gold, and 
 a crimson velvet cap bordered with 
 Russian sable, from which hung a long 
 gold tassel that dangled about his left 
 ear. Two ornamented pistols were 
 thrust in his crimson sash, and a short 
 sword hung at his side, the hilt and 
 scabbard bright with gold and jewels. 
 
 At his elbow rode his servant, a 
 young man of his own age slender and 
 dark, with a sinister but very clever 
 face, a Greek, whose fate, different as 
 their social status was, had been initially 
 much like his own. 
 
 219
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 Leonidas, the son of an innkeeper 
 at Megara, had been like Abul Abbas 
 torn from his home in childhood by the 
 Turks and carried to Constantinople. 
 But there the difference began. Abul 
 Abbas had been taken at an age so 
 tender that he had lost all recollection 
 of his home, name, and religion, and 
 thought himself, and doubtless was, 
 much happier in his life in the Serail 
 as the Sultan's adopted son, than he 
 could ever have been in his own country. 
 To him, his captivity was his good for- 
 tune. But Leonidas had been, when 
 taken by the Turks, already fourteen 
 years old. He remembered everything 
 and with regret, and though he too was 
 brought to the Serail, he came there as a 
 slave. 
 
 He had not changed his name or his 
 religion, and in his heart, he hated all 
 Turks and thirsted for revenge. But 
 he was clever, and outwardly he tried 
 to please his masters and succeeded very 
 well. He had been given some years 
 before, to Abul Abbas, whose entire 
 
 220
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 confidence he had won, and whom he 
 served with an intense devotion, partly 
 real, because the Bey was kind and gener- 
 ous to him, and partly because he saw 
 that his master's interest was his own. 
 
 "Leonidas," said Abul Abbas sud- 
 denly, "have I not heard you say that 
 you knew the Governor of Bosnia, 
 Mukhtar Pacha?" 
 
 " Yes, Bey Effendi, I know him. " 
 
 "By the Sultan's orders," said Abul 
 Abbas, "we must stay here and guard 
 him in his mountain nest, and fight 
 for him if need be. It will be dull, 
 and I fear will lack all excitement. I 
 would at least like to think that he is 
 worthy of our sacrifice; what do you 
 know of him?" 
 
 The Greek's eyes flashed, but he 
 replied laconically, "nothing good." 
 
 At that moment, they rounded the 
 shoulder of a mountain and came sud- 
 denly on one of the most beautiful and 
 wonderful sights that Europe has to 
 show, the cataract of the Verbas. 
 Bosnia is a land of mountains, long 
 
 221
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 ranges covered with dark forests, and 
 deep rich valleys watered by wild 
 mountain streams. 
 
 King of its rivers is the Verbas. For 
 miles it pushes down between the 
 mountains in a succession of rapids, 
 growing ever wilder in its course, till 
 at last it takes a leap of seventy-five 
 feet in the air, and hurls its waters with 
 a sound like thunder and a mist of foam 
 and spray, into the gorge below. 
 
 The Spahis had come out just below 
 an old church and monastery and from 
 this point is the finest view. On the 
 left a mountain rising like a wall, and 
 on the right another less precipitate 
 on whose side, and just above the cata- 
 ract, the town of Jaice hangs like an 
 eagle's nest. It is a quaint little 
 Turkish town, a relic of the past, with 
 its old walls, its grey stone houses with 
 their latticed bay windows, and the 
 red roofs and the minarets of its seven 
 mosques. 
 
 Between the two mountains thunders 
 the cataract, a sight which none can 
 222
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 worthily describe, but at which those 
 who see it stand and hold their breath, 
 as did the Spahis. Abul Abbas had 
 been reared in the Serail, but a born 
 mountaineer has the love of the moun- 
 tains in his breast, and now as he drew 
 rein and looked at the stupendous 
 scene before him, it was with a wild 
 and fierce delight. Under the embroid- 
 ery of the Albanian jacket, beat the 
 Albanian heart. 
 
 The Spahis rode past the church and 
 monastery, long, square, and white like 
 an iceberg set down in the green valley, 
 and thence up the side of the mountain, 
 the road taking a sharp and sudden rise. 
 
 Jaice has two gates, one toward the 
 river, the other landward, and it was at 
 the latter that Abul Abbas and his Spahis 
 entered the town and rode down the 
 principal street, which is twelve feet 
 broad and paved with flags. On either 
 side are houses with over-hanging bay 
 windows, and below the usual Oriental 
 bird-box shops, in which the proprietors 
 sit cross-legged working at their various 
 223
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 trades or merely patiently awaiting 
 their customers. 
 
 A few Bosnian peasants in their 
 picturesque costumes as well as a few 
 Turkish irregulars and three or four 
 Turkish women in black veils were 
 lounging in the streets. The residence 
 of the Governor, a square, whitewashed 
 house with the usual bay windows on 
 the upper floor was marked by the 
 Turkish flag, which hung over the door- 
 way, and by the presence of two sen- 
 tries leaning on their muskets and 
 indulging in an animated conversation 
 with each other. 
 
 The noise of the horses' hoofs on the 
 stone pavement had brought several 
 persons to the door, and as Abul Abbas 
 alighted he was received by the Lieu- 
 tenant, and the Secretary of the Gover- 
 nor, a large and important black eunuch 
 and two or three of the principal citizens 
 of Jaice. All were apparelled in Turkish 
 costume more or less gorgeous, with 
 white turbans around their fezes. (Mah- 
 moud had not yet introduced his dress 
 224
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 reforms, and they indeed have had no 
 effect in Bosnia, where the Oriental dress 
 still reigns supreme.) 
 
 Everything in Jaice was on a small and 
 necessarily simple scale, which made it 
 impossible for the Governor to keep up 
 the usual state. 
 
 Abul Abbas, followed by Leonidas, 
 was ushered at once into a low, white- 
 washed room with a divan at one end, 
 covered with Turkish rugs, on which 
 sat a tall handsome man in the forties, 
 with aquiline features, a black beard, and 
 eagle eye Mukhtar Pacha. The Pacha's 
 dress was rich and costly, jewels glittered 
 on his fingers, and he seemed as out of 
 place in his surroundings as an eagle in 
 a sparrow's nest. 
 
 He invited Abul Abbas to sit beside 
 him. The usual Oriental compliments 
 were interchanged, and then the Pacha 
 informed the Bey that he had received 
 the Sultan's letter in regard to him, and 
 that he thanked the Padishah for send- 
 ing him so valiant a defender, though in 
 truth no such defender was necessary, 
 is 225
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 as the province was for the moment at 
 peace, and his own forces sufficient for 
 his protection. He explained that there 
 was no room for the Spahis in the town, 
 for which reason he had ordered them 
 to be received into the monastery in 
 the valley below, a command which, he 
 added, did not please the monks, though 
 they had ample room, and was therefore 
 liable to dissatisfy the peasantry, who 
 in Bosnia are all Christians and as such 
 under the domination of the monks. 
 Finally he regretted that he would be 
 unable to receive Abul Abbas into his 
 own house, as it was small and hardly 
 afforded room enough for his own house- 
 hold ; but that he had provided for him 
 other quarters, namely, a small house 
 just inside the wall. 
 
 Abul Abbas was by no means pleased 
 with his reception, but he accepted it in 
 silence, drank a cup of coffee with the 
 Pacha, smoked a cigarette, and then 
 arose and took his leave. The secretary 
 and the fat negro were waiting at the 
 door to be his guides, and remounting 
 226
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 his horse he followed them through a 
 street but four feet wide, to his house, 
 a picturesque little box which hung over 
 the city wall, and into whose windows 
 the south wind blew the spray of the 
 cataract. 
 
 There were three rooms on each floor, 
 all white- washed and bare. Abul Abbas 
 established himself on the upper floor 
 with Leonidas, leaving the ground floor 
 to the cook, and cook's boy, whom he 
 had brought with him, and four Spahis, 
 whom he retained, and the rest of his 
 troop rode back again to the monastery 
 in the valley. The Bey's rugs, cushions, 
 and curtains, his table service and 
 kitchen utensils were unpacked from 
 the backs of his sumpter- mules, and the 
 little house on the wall was soon in a 
 habitable condition. 
 
 The negro of Mukhtar Pacha, who 
 possessed the curiosity usual to his race, 
 remained during the establishment, and 
 assisted Leonidas with his advice. The 
 Greek in turn, who did nothing without a 
 motive, treated him with the greatest 
 227
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 deference, flattered him and so won his 
 confidence that in an hour he had learned 
 everything about Mukhtar Pacha, which 
 he wished to know. 
 
 Meantime the cook whose name was 
 Assaf disposed his stores of rice, coffee, 
 sugar, and spices, and sat down to wait 
 for the provisions which he felt sure 
 the Governor would send his master. 
 But no provisions coming, he finally 
 sallied forth in a high state of indigna- 
 tion (followed by his boy with a basket) 
 to search the Bosnian market. 
 
 Meat is rare in Bosnia with the excep- 
 tion of tame ducks and game, and the 
 choicest food is furnished by the 
 mountain streams, which are full of 
 trout and fresh-water crabs. Assaf 
 soon discovered the scarcity of meat 
 and returned home with his basket 
 full of fish and vegetables, tomatoes, 
 cucumbers, and maize. 
 
 Abul Abbas had established himself 
 in a back room, which had a latticed 
 bay window hanging out over the water- 
 fall and commanded the view up and 
 228
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 down the valley. He had nothing to 
 do, and gave himself up to his reflections. 
 The cold reception of the Pacha had 
 surprised him; being so high in favour 
 with the Sultan, he expected to be 
 treated with consideration by everybody, 
 but he was young and had many things 
 to learn. 
 
 He glanced around him and thought 
 with regret of his luxurious apartments 
 in the Serail, but only for a moment; he 
 was a soldier and independent of such 
 things. The only thing he dreaded was 
 inaction, and it seemed that that would 
 be his destiny here in Bosnia. 
 
 He knew the Sultan's reason for 
 sending him away from Constantinople. 
 His fiery disposition would not brook 
 the tyranny of the Janissaries as Mah- 
 moud himself was forced at times to do. 
 Two or three times already he had 
 opposed himself to their leader Kara 
 Makan, and though his daring spirit 
 had carried him through until now, the 
 Sultan knew that it could not last, and 
 that he would be cut short in the flower 
 229
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 of his career. He had therefore been 
 saved from his enemies, and from him- 
 self, and exiled that he might live. 
 
 At dusk Leonidas entered, lighted 
 the hanging lanterns, and brought up 
 the supper. 
 
 "Bey Effendi," he. said, as he set 
 down the tray on a little table, brought 
 like everything else from Stamboul, 
 "there is no meat in Jaice. Assaf has 
 searched the town in vain, and Mukhtar 
 Pacha has sent you nothing; truly he 
 has shown you but scant courtesy." 
 
 "It would seem so," replied Abul 
 Abbas, and he began his supper with a 
 good appetite. 
 
 Presently Leonidas resumed, "nor is 
 his house so small or so crowded that 
 he could not have entertained you. I 
 have talked with Achmet, the guardian 
 of his harem." 
 
 " Well, " said Abul Abbas, " what then 
 was his reason?" 
 
 "Jealousy," replied the Greek; "he, 
 has a beautiful young wife who does 
 not love him, nay Achmet says she 
 230
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 hates him, and therefore he dreads the 
 presence of a man so young and hand- 
 some in his house." 
 
 " I should not see her in any case. " 
 
 " No, but she could see you through 
 the lattices, and women always find 
 means of having their way. She will 
 see you doubtless as it is, for the house 
 has no garden, and all the windows 
 look out on the street, and therefore 
 Mukhtar Pacha resents your presence 
 in the town." 
 
 "How many wives has he?" asked 
 Abul Abbas. " I know he has a son in 
 the Sultan's guards, and another among 
 the pages." 
 
 " Yes, and two married daughters. 
 All the children of his first wife, but she 
 is dead, and he has only this one who is 
 said to be so beautiful. She is a 
 Persian." 
 
 "A Persian?" 
 
 " Yes, Bey Effendi. Three years ago 
 
 Mukhtar Pacha was sent to Teheran, 
 
 and there he married her, I know not 
 
 how, but Achmet says she hates him, 
 
 231
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 and pines for her own country. Her 
 nurse, who is a Persian also and came 
 with her, tells him that she finds Mukh- 
 tar too old. When they were married 
 he was forty and she fifteen, and the 
 nurse says she would have preferred a 
 youth nearer her own age. But be that 
 as it may, she is not happy. The Pacha 
 does everything to please her but in 
 vain. She makes no secret of her in- 
 difference for him, and she is so beau- 
 tiful that he is tormented by the fear 
 that she may find a lover." 
 
 "Does she go out? I would that I 
 could see her, even veiled." 
 
 " Yes, every day with Achmet and her 
 nurse. And, Bey Effendi, " and the 
 Greek bent down and whispered in 
 his ear: "You can see her if you will, 
 unveiled." 
 
 "How?" asked Abul Abbas. 
 
 Leonidas went and looked into the 
 next room, closed the door which 
 opened on the staircase, and returned. 
 
 "Bey Effendi " he said, "this eunuch 
 is to be bought. I have talked with 
 232
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 him and know. Doubtless the nurse 
 could be bribed as well. Mukhtar is 
 miserly and cruel, his people do not 
 love him. The town is small and every 
 day Feridah Hanoum walks out through 
 the lower gate and along the river with 
 these two and no one else. They meet 
 no one but the peasants, who fear 
 Mukhtar too much to interfere, and so 
 the Pacha thinks it safe. The Persian 
 is young and beautiful, and Achmet 
 thinks that she would like a lover." 
 
 Abul Abbas threw himself back among 
 the cushions and gazed at his servant as 
 if he had been some evil jinn. 
 
 "Leonidas," he said, "you hate this 
 Mukhtar Pacha, why?" 
 
 Instantly the Greek's manner changed. 
 "Hate him," he said indifferently, "oh, 
 no I only thought of something to amuse 
 my master. Had the Pacha shown you 
 hospitality, you could not have given 
 his wife a thought, but as it is, you owe 
 him nothing." 
 
 "No," said the Bey, whose hot young 
 blood was stirred by the thought of the 
 233
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 adventure, "that is true; I owe him 
 nothing. I will try and see the beautiful 
 Feridah." 
 
 Leonidas, as if in search of something, 
 left the room. Outside he sat down on 
 the stairs and buried his face in his 
 hands overcome by his emotions. 
 
 " I have not worked in vain, " he 
 thought. " The Albanian is wax in my 
 hands. I will make him the instrument 
 of my revenge." 
 
 The narrow walls of the Bosnian house 
 seemed to open before him, and he saw 
 the square of Megara swarming with 
 Turkish soldiers and Greek peasants 
 pale with fear. Two notorious Greek 
 rebels had been found hidden in his 
 father's inn, and the punishment was 
 swift and sure. Once more he saw the 
 Turkish Pacha, seated calm and un- 
 moved on his Arabian horse, and heard 
 him give his orders. The inn was fired. 
 He saw the flames burst through the 
 windows and flicker on the roof, but 
 a sight still more terrible distracted 
 his attention. His father was dragged 
 234
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 before the Pacha, a cord was placed 
 around his neck, and he was strangled in 
 the presence of his children, Leonidas and 
 his sister, a beautiful girl of fifteen, who 
 stood by, weeping in each other's arms. 
 
 And then brother and sister were 
 separated, torn apart, their hands tied 
 behind them, and each one lifted up 
 behind a soldier on his horse. He could 
 hear the Pacha say: "The boy shall go 
 to Stamboul, the girl I will keep myself," 
 and at that moment the thirst for ven- 
 geance had entered into his heart, and 
 he had made a vow that if it cost his own 
 life, he would be revenged on the man 
 who had done all this. And he thanked 
 heaven that he knew his name, Mukhtar 
 Pacha! 
 
 He had never seen his sister again, but 
 he had learned her fate. She had been 
 betrothed to the son of a merchant in 
 Athens, and he had tried to find and 
 buy her back, but Mukhtar Pacha had 
 kept her for himself. A year after- 
 wards she had escaped, rejoined her 
 betrothed, and they had fled to the 
 
 2 35
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 mountains. But Mukhtar had pursued 
 and found them. They had been brought 
 back, and were seen again no more. 
 Mukhtar was cruel and unrelenting as 
 the grave, and their fate was one of those 
 mysteries about which it is better not to 
 ask. 
 
 Through Mukhtar, his father had lost 
 his life, his sister her honour, and he 
 himself his liberty. The debt was heavy, 
 and Leonidas sought to repay the Pacha 
 in his own coin death and dishonour. 
 But to do so he needed all his art, never 
 must he forget himself, and now he rose 
 and re-entered his master's presence 
 with a smile. 
 
 "Leonidas," said Abul Abbas, "at 
 what hour does Mukhtar's wife walk 
 by the river?" 
 
 "I will discover, Bey Effendi. You 
 know your pleasure is my first con- 
 sideration." 
 
 " Yes, you are a faithful servant." 
 
 " I do my best. There are but two 
 things worthy of pursuit for a young 
 prince, war and love. I fear that here 
 236
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 in Jaice my lord will pine in vain for 
 adventures of the field of battle; where- 
 fore the only amusement left for him is 
 love." 
 
 Far into the night Leonidas was spin- 
 ning his plans of vengeance as the spider 
 spins his web, and when he fell asleep in 
 the grey dawn, they were almost spun. 
 
 II 
 
 The next morning Abul Abbas rode 
 down into the valley to his Spahis. As 
 he passed the Governor's house he rode 
 very slowly and looked up at the latticed 
 windows. He saw nothing of course, 
 but he hoped that the beautiful Persian 
 was looking down at him. Arrived at 
 the monastery he found the monks and 
 his Spahis all in a bad humour, the 
 result of their forced association. 
 
 His first effort was with the monks. 
 He explained to them that the soldiers 
 were quartered there by the orders of 
 the Governor and through no desire of 
 his, and his naturally gracious manner 
 2 37
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 and the gift of a few pieces of gold 
 coin soon won over his unwilling 
 hosts. 
 
 With the soldiers his task was even 
 easier. He merely talked to them 
 and told them the reception he had 
 met with himself, and they forgot 
 their own dissatisfaction. 
 
 As he rode back again and turned the 
 corner of the Governor's house, a small 
 door, doubtless that of the harem 
 staircase, opened, and three figures came 
 out, the negro and two women com- 
 pletely shrouded in black ferejehs and 
 veils. The Albanian's heart beat fast 
 as he drew rein to let them pass, but it 
 was impossible to tell which was the 
 beauty and which the nurse, and he rode 
 on to his little house on the wall. 
 
 In the afternoon Leonidas paid a long 
 visit to Achmet and returned with all the 
 news, with which he entertained his 
 master at supper. The eunuch had told 
 him that his mistress had seen Abul 
 Abbas in the street, and had confided 
 in her nurse that she thought him very 
 238
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 handsome and was delighted with his 
 Albanian costume. 
 
 Abul Abbas gave him a piece of gold 
 for the eunuch, and one for the nurse, 
 and Leonidas went again to the Gov- 
 ernor's residence after supper, and soon 
 returned with a piece of information 
 which, to the Albanian, seemed very 
 cheap at two pieces of gold. The beauti- 
 ful Persian it seemed went every day to 
 a certain secluded spot on the river to 
 bathe. A small kiosk had been con- 
 structed there for her use, and this kiosk, 
 the two servants decided, offered the 
 possibility of a rendezvous. 
 
 Abul Abbas was really excited now, 
 and imagined himself already in love 
 with the beautiful Persian. Youth will 
 love and must love as it can, and in 
 the Orient I 'amour s'attrape par Voreille. 
 The next day he met the veiled figures 
 again in the street not once but twice, 
 and both times they stopped and looked 
 at him. Abul Abbas was in haste, and 
 would have sent more gold to the Pacha's 
 servants, but the Greek restrained him. 
 239
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 " You have shown them that you have 
 money," he said, "and it is enough. 
 Do not pay for what you want before, 
 but afterwards." 
 
 The third day they met again, and that 
 evening after supper, Leonidas informed 
 his master that he thought the rendez- 
 vous might take place on the morrow. 
 Abul Abbas was overjoyed. "But are 
 you sure," he asked, "that Feridah 
 Hanoum will receive me?" 
 
 " Yes," said Leonidas, " it is her wish. 
 The eunuch and the nurse are ours, and 
 everything is arranged. I think we are 
 sure of success, but," he added care- 
 lessly, " of course we will risk our lives. " 
 
 " Of course, " replied Abul Abbas with 
 a smile, "love has its perils as well as 
 war, but in the danger lies the charm. 
 After all it makes no difference, we 
 all die when our time comes and not 
 before. " 
 
 The next morning Abul Abbas with 
 Leonidas and two of his Spahis started 
 out on horseback with guns over their 
 shoulders as if in search of game. 
 240
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 For some distance up the river they 
 rode, and a mile or more beyond the 
 kiosk of Feridah Hanoum, the red 
 roof of which, visible through the 
 bushes, the Greek (who had carefully 
 reconnoitred the spot) pointed out to 
 his master. The rendezvous was to be 
 at noon, and, having reached a village 
 the Albanian and his suite dismounted, 
 and ordering his soldiers to guard the 
 horses and not to stir from the spot until 
 his return, Abul Abbas, followed by his 
 servant, struck off on foot up the side 
 of the mountain to look for imaginary 
 birds. 
 
 They ascended till they were lost to 
 sight from the village among the trees, 
 then walked in a straight line along the 
 side of the mountain till they were 
 opposite the kiosk, and then descend- 
 ing to within a few paces of the road, 
 sat down among the underbrush to 
 await the signal which had been agreed 
 upon. Ten minutes perhaps elapsed, and 
 then they saw above the bushes a white 
 scarf, waved for a moment in the air. 
 *s 241
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 Abul Abbas sprang to his feet and 
 dashed down across the road and in 
 among the bushes, his heart beating 
 quickly with excitement, his cheeks 
 flushed, and his eyes sparkling with 
 anticipated pleasure. He was young 
 and his blood ran through his veins like 
 fire. The Greek followed him, and once 
 well among the bushes, they saw a 
 black hand beckoning from behind a 
 willow tree, and in another moment met 
 the eunuch in front of the kiosk. This 
 was a small square wooden building with 
 a latticed window and a narrow door. 
 
 Achmet led the Greek round to the 
 other side nearest the river, and then 
 returning took Abul Abbas by the hand, 
 opened the door, and pushed him in 
 shutting it again behind him, and stand- 
 ing guard outside. For a moment the 
 Albanian, coming from the brilliant 
 noonday could see nothing; but a woman 
 whom he knew must be the nurse ap- 
 proached, and took him by the hand, 
 and then the dusk seemed to clear up 
 around him, and he looked and saw. 
 242
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 The fair Persian was seated on a bench 
 over which had been thrown a Bosnian 
 rug, and as Abul Abbas looked at her, 
 he did not know which surprised him 
 most, her beauty or her costume, for 
 she wore the Persian dress. Feridah 
 was white as alabaster with features of 
 faultless beauty, black eyes like a gazelle, 
 and coral lips which seemed made only 
 to be kissed. Her hair, like waved 
 black silk, was drawn up on her head 
 and then let fall again in rippling masses 
 to her waist. On her head she wore a 
 small pink silk turban striped with gold, 
 fastened on one side with a bunch of 
 flowers made of gold wire and precious 
 stones. 
 
 Her dress consisted of a tight-fitting 
 bodice of purple satin embroidered in 
 gold, cut out in front in a broad square, 
 which revealed the snowy whiteness of 
 her throat and bosom, and with tight 
 sleeves which ended at the elbow, and 
 showed her round white arms, circled 
 with diamond bracelets, and her delicate 
 hands loaded with rings. Her trousers 
 243
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 were of pink silk striped with gold, and 
 so full that they hung like a skirt; but 
 unlike the Turkish trousers which reach 
 the ankle, they ended at the knee, and 
 after the amazing custom of the Persian 
 women, who only shoe themselves to go 
 out, her feet and legs were bare. 
 
 Abul Abbas had spent his childhood 
 in the Sultan's harem, and his youth 
 was not absolutely that of an anchorite, 
 but he felt as he looked at Feridah that 
 he had never had such a revelation of 
 beauty before. There is no precedent to 
 guide the Oriental lover, but Abul Abbas 
 trusted in God and in himself, and after 
 gazing at the beautiful Persian for a 
 moment in silence, he stepped forward, 
 sank on one knee before her, and took 
 and kissed her han4. 
 
 Feridah looked at him and smiled, and 
 then speaking in Turkish with a foreign 
 accent, invited him to sit beside her. He 
 accepted the invitation and began to 
 speak: "Hanoum," he said, "I can 
 never thank you enough for your good- 
 ness in receiving me." 
 244
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 "No," replied the Persian calmly, 
 "it is you who are good to come, for in 
 doing so you run the greatest risk. " 
 
 "Ah, Hanoum, " said Abul Abbas, 
 "the risk is nothing when the stake is 
 Paradise." 
 
 The beautiful Feridah smiled. " You 
 talk," she said, "like a Persian. The 
 Turks do not value the flowers of lan- 
 guage, and their only pride is to speak 
 the truth." 
 
 Abul Abbas reflected that truth was 
 not, at least in Turkey, an attribute ever 
 ascribed to the Persians, but this lady 
 seemed indeed entirely straightforward, 
 and he contented himself with replying 
 that he was by birth an Albanian. 
 
 "Everything," said Feridah, "which 
 reminds me of my country fills me with 
 delight. I am, and always will be, a 
 stranger here." 
 
 Abul Abbas was more Turkish than 
 the Turks. He knew the Turkish Em- 
 pire was full of aliens brought there for 
 the most part against their will. In the 
 Serail itself nearly all were slaves or 
 
 245
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 captives like himself. But they all 
 wore smiling faces and he, who thought 
 Turkey the one country in the world 
 and the Serail the centre around which 
 everything revolved, supposed (if he 
 thought of it at all) that they all con- 
 sidered their captivity as much their 
 good fortune as he did his own. Now 
 for the first time the sadness in Feridah's 
 tone made him feel that one might love 
 one's own country better than even 
 the Ottoman Empire; but even then 
 it was a feeling for which he sought an 
 explanation. 
 
 " You do not love your husband, " he 
 said, "or his country would be yours." 
 
 "No," said Feridah, "I do not. 
 Mukhtar Pacha is a man whom no 
 woman could love. He is hard, cruel, 
 and avaricious. It is true he loves me, 
 at least with what he calls love, and 
 tries to please me; but I have only to 
 look around me to know what he really 
 is. At my father's house in Teheran, 
 we had many slaves, but they had been 
 ours always, and loved us and considered 
 246
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 that they belonged to our family. Here 
 there is not a woman in our harem 
 who has been bought with money. 
 Mukhtar has torn them all from their 
 homes when they were old enough to 
 remember, and the tales they tell of him 
 and his atrocities make my blood run 
 cold. " 
 
 "Mukhtar is undoubtedly a hard and 
 cruel man," said Abul Abbas, "but do 
 not judge all Turks by him. I also am 
 a prisoner of war, but I was adopted by 
 the Sultan, and have found in my cap- 
 tivity a happy and brilliant life, which 
 would never have been mine at home. " 
 
 Feridah looked at him in wonder. 
 "Then," she said, "you do not remem- 
 ber, you know nothing but the Serail. 
 I think always of my home, our beautiful 
 palace and garden, where I and my sis- 
 ters were as happy as the days were long. 
 Mukhtar came to Teheran ; he heard of us 
 and the Shah wishing to please him, 
 ordered my father to give him one of his 
 daughters. Two were already betrothed 
 and the other was too young. I was the 
 247
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 victim. My only comfort was that I 
 could bring with me my nurse. She 
 loved me as her own child, and we talk 
 always of our happy days in Teheran." 
 
 Abul Abbas began to realise that she 
 sought his aid in escaping from her 
 husband and returning to her own land ; 
 but he knew that his duty to the Sultan 
 made such an undertaking impossible 
 for him. 
 
 "Hanoum, " he said, "I would gladly 
 give my life for you, but I cannot take 
 you back to Persia. All countries are 
 alike when the sun shines on them and 
 all alike when it is dark. Love was the 
 sunshine of your happiness at home! 
 With another love, that love you have 
 not known, you will be more happy 
 here. " 
 
 He spoke so passionately that Feridah 
 realised in her turn why he had come 
 to her. 
 
 "Another love," she said, "yes, if I 
 could have that. " 
 
 "It is yours already," cried the Al- 
 banian falling on one knee before her, 
 248
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 and taking both her hands. "Feridah, 
 no man could see you and not love you. 
 I lay my heart at your feet. " 
 
 Feridah flushed with more than 
 pleasure. The Albanian was young, 
 handsome, and full of fire, and he was 
 her first lover. She did not answer, but 
 she leant forward, and the next instant 
 she was in his arms, and they had given 
 each other their first kiss. The nurse 
 sat stoically in the corner; she had not 
 learned Turkish, and could not follow 
 the conversation; but she knew that all 
 love scenes are alike. 
 
 Presently there was a knock at the 
 door. It was Achmet giving the signal 
 which Mahaferid repeated to her mis- 
 tress, that it was time for the Bey to 
 withdraw. 
 
 A few minutes after, the Albanian 
 and the Greek were once more in ambush 
 on the mountain side, and Abul Abbas 
 watched with a beating heart the three 
 figures emerge from the bushes, and 
 knew by the graceful carriage only, that 
 the one who walked in the middle and 
 249
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 wore yellow boots was the 
 Persian, the iKMuau he now loved. He 
 said nothing, but the Greek read him 
 Eke a book, and all the way hack along 
 
 '.:.. ".:._:.:...: : : r j~i: -.'-'. -. : .~. .n.r-rj :~ 
 the success of hob enterprise. When 
 they readied the village, they com- 
 plained at not finding any gamr.aad, to 
 :-.' . . ~ .. : - . " .._- . : ..:.:.: r\- L . '-. 
 
 and rode farther vp the valley. 
 
 Abol Abbas fonxd himself to be cahn 
 
 fiDed with a wild and 
 
 JKCOOL jo^ui vo SBIIOVIK aaioi sjoa^E* i 
 Ins fii&t real hyve adwntmcL Xhe 
 smt was setting as they re-entered Jake. 
 As they rode past tiie Governor's hoase, 
 
 and thoogh he saw nothia^ he idt that 
 
 :;_ .'..;..:: . ._. :.~: ""? ~":.~. ;~...~.^ ::r 
 
 and lontamg down at 
 
 ..".. : . " ; . ' .: .-.: ...:; . .i_? " ; : 
 
 -5-
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 as indeed he was working for himself, 
 but he had no idea of spoiling his plans 
 by undue haste, and explained to his 
 master that their motto must be Fes- 
 tina lente. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Mukhtar Pacha had not returned the 
 visit of Abul Abbas, but, acting on the 
 advice of his servant, the Albanian 
 ignored this inattention, and went to 
 visit him again the next morning. 
 
 The Pacha again received him coldly, 
 but Abul Abbas, who had come for a pur- 
 pose, overlooked this, and, as instructed 
 by Leonidas, discoursed with great anim- 
 ation on the pleasures of shooting in the 
 mountains, and declared that, as far as 
 his military duties (which were nothing) 
 would permit, he meant to give himself 
 up to the invigorating sport. Mukhtar 
 fell into the trap as the Greek intended, 
 considered the Albanian well disposed 
 of, and troubled himself about him no 
 more. 
 
 251
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 Abul Abbas spent the afternoon at 
 the monastery with the monks and 
 Spahis, but time dragged; he was im- 
 patient to see Peridah again, and after 
 supper sent Leonidas to arrange another 
 interview. The answer was favourable, 
 Achmet promising in the name of his 
 lady another interview at the kiosk on 
 the river. 
 
 Everything seemed to be going well, 
 almost too well. Abul Abbas himself 
 was struck by the ease with which things 
 arranged themselves. It seemed strange, 
 as he remarked to Leonidas, that a man 
 so jealous as Mukhtar Pacha would 
 allow his wife to go out with only two 
 attendants or to bathe in the river at all. 
 
 These reflections on the part of his 
 master convinced the Greek that he had 
 not lost his head as well as his heart. 
 He congratulated himself on the dis- 
 covery, and explained the situation by 
 saying that the Pacha had absolute 
 confidence in Achmet, and was reas- 
 sured on the score of Abul Abbas on 
 finding him absorbed in the chase. 
 252
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 To carry out the latter illusion, the 
 Albanian and the Greek started out the 
 next morning with guns and game-bags, 
 but this time leaving the Spahis behind. 
 They rode up the valley and left their 
 horses at the village as before, and again 
 struck up the mountain, made their way 
 through the bushes, and waited for the 
 signal as before. 
 
 Again the white cloth was waved and 
 again Abul Abbas flew to his lady on the 
 wings of love. An Oriental wooing goes 
 quickly. The ice had been well broken 
 on the first occasion, and this time they 
 met as lovers. Abul Abbas took Feri- 
 dah in his arms, and she clasped hers 
 around his neck and gave him back his 
 kisses. Mahaferid, the nurse, sat and 
 looked on apparently without emotion, 
 but really with entire satisfaction, for 
 she loved and sympathised with her 
 nursling, and, knowing her to be un- 
 happy with her husband, was glad that 
 she had found a lover. 
 
 To-day there was more light in the 
 kiosk, for a tile had fallen off the roof, 
 
 253
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 and a long sunbeam shot in like a golden 
 arrow. Abul Abbas gazed at Feridah, 
 and she at him. Their conversation, 
 like that of most lovers, would look in- 
 consequential if printed, but to them 
 it was of significance, and they were 
 perfectly happy holding each other's 
 hands, and looking into each other's eyes. 
 
 The Albanian indeed wished for some- 
 thing more, and urged her to fly with him. 
 But she answered simply: "Where? 
 Where beyond the power of Mukhtar? 
 You say you cannot take me back to 
 Persia, and in Turkey he would find us. 
 It is already a great deal that we can 
 meet thus, and we must be satisfied." 
 
 Then she asked him if he was not 
 named after the first Khalif of the 
 Abbassids, and showed him that she 
 knew some history, for she could read 
 and write. She complained that the 
 name was long and that she would have 
 one for him all her own, saying that 
 she would call him by the Khalif 's other 
 name, Safar. Abul Abbas knew the 
 significance of this name was bad, but 
 254
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 she knew no Arabic, and only that it was 
 sweet to the ear, so he accepted it, and 
 henceforth she called him always Safar. 
 
 This time he lingered with her longer 
 than the last, and Achmet repeated his 
 summons several times before he tore 
 himself away. Then, for greater cau- 
 tion, he and the Greek pursued their 
 hunt into the mountains, and not till 
 evening did they retiirn to Jaice. 
 
 The next day Abul Abbas perforce 
 went hunting. In the Serail he had 
 been taught the art of war, but he knew 
 nothing of sport, and found it trivial 
 and uninteresting. But hunt he must, 
 and he began to realise that he who lives 
 a deception walks no easy road. 
 
 That evening Achmet came in great 
 excitement to visit Leonidas and when 
 he had left, the Greek informed his 
 master that Mukhtar Pacha was going 
 on a three days' hunting trip, and that 
 he considered this would be their great 
 opportunity, provided the Pacha did not 
 spoil everything by inviting Abul Abbas 
 to go with him. Achmet had also 
 255
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 brought the promise of another rendez- 
 vous for the next morning, and Leonidas 
 instructed Abul Abbas to make use of 
 this to persuade the beautiful Persian 
 to come and sup with him at his house 
 on the first evening of the Pacha's de- 
 parture. 
 
 The Albanian was charmed with this 
 plan if it could only be carried out, 
 commended the Greek warmly for his 
 devotion, and gave him three pieces of 
 gold. Little did he know that his 
 servant was working, not for him, but 
 for himself, and that in this affair, which 
 progressed as if by magic, he was the 
 slave and Leonidas the master. 
 
 The next day Abul Abbas met Feridah 
 at the bathing kiosk for the third time. 
 When they were seated side by side, he 
 asked her when Mukhtar Pacha would 
 start on his hunting expedition. Feri- 
 dah replied that he would start the 
 next afternoon, and that the party would 
 last three days, whereupon the Alban- 
 ian, with all the abruptness of an impa- 
 tient passion, asked her to come and 
 256
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 sup with him the next evening at his 
 house. 
 
 Feridah was startled, and declared 
 that it would be impossible, but Abul 
 Abbas explained to her his, or rather 
 his servant's, plan. Leonidas would 
 procure the dress of a Bosnian peasant 
 woman, and send it to her by Achmet. 
 As soon as it was dark, she would put 
 it on, and Achmet would let her out of 
 the harem entrance. The Greek would 
 be waiting for her in the street and con- 
 duct her to the little house on the wall, 
 and if any one met them, she would pass 
 for a peasant woman with whom the 
 Bey's servant had made a chance 
 acquaintance . 
 
 Feridah thought the plan a good one. 
 
 "But Safar," she said, "I cannot 
 come alone." 
 
 "Achmet cannot accompany you. 
 He might be recognised, and all would 
 be lost. My servant will guard you as 
 he would his life." 
 
 "But Safar," she said, "Mahaferid 
 must come with me; let your servant 
 17 257
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 bring a dress for her also. I cannot 
 come to you alone." 
 
 "Feridah," said the Albanian, "do 
 you not love me?" 
 
 "Yes, Safar," she said, and she put 
 her hand in his. 
 
 "Then come to me alone." 
 
 She did not answer, and he would not 
 urge her further, but left it to herself. 
 But at their parting, when he held her 
 in his arms, he said, "Feridah, I will 
 send two dresses, but I will hope that 
 there will be need of only one." 
 
 Still she did not answer, but she 
 looked at him and kissed him with all 
 the love that he desired. 
 
 The next day Abul Abbas, for the 
 sake of appearances and much against 
 his will, went out hunting again. But 
 this time his penance was not too long, 
 for at three o'clock as he sat with his 
 servant on the side of the mountain, 
 well concealed and thinking of far other 
 game than birds, he had the pleasure 
 of seeing the Pacha riding up the valley 
 followed by quite a numerous train, 
 258
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 equipped with all the weapons and ac- 
 cessories of the chase. 
 
 Hardly were they out of sight when 
 the impatient lover descended from his 
 perch and, followed by his servant, 
 returned with incredible speed to Jaice. 
 There the little house was in a bustle in 
 which the two hunters at once took their 
 part. Assaf had, in the early morning, 
 scoured the town and returned trium- 
 phant, laden with the spoils of forest 
 and stream, to say nothing of the gifts 
 of the garden, vegetables, fruit, and 
 flowers. A sumptuous supper was there- 
 fore now in preparation. 
 
 The flowers were lying together in a 
 heap, and Abul Abbas, who had never 
 in his life attempted such a thing, took 
 them and twined them into garlands 
 and hung them round the white walls 
 of his three living rooms. Quantities 
 of candles were arranged wherever place 
 could be found for them, and as it grew 
 dark, the Greek lit them, and went to 
 fetch Feridah. Abul Abbas had arrayed 
 himself in his greatest splendour of crim- 
 
 259
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 son and gold. He wore his whitest kilt 
 and all his jewels, and now waited with 
 impatience, asking himself over and 
 over again the great question whether 
 or not Feridah would come to him alone. 
 
 A short time passed, and then he 
 heard the house door open and close 
 again and a step on the stair, but one, 
 it seemed, that of Leonidas. The door 
 opened, and the Greek entered, and be- 
 hind him a Bosnian peasant woman, 
 whose step had made no sound because 
 her feet were bare. 
 
 Abul Abbas looked at her for an in- 
 stant in silence. The Bosnian dress is 
 graceful and becoming. She wore a 
 white linen skirt and tunic, and a short 
 sleeveless vest, which was of crimson 
 velvet embroidered in gold, cut heart- 
 shaped in the neck. Wide, white sleeves 
 showed her white arms inside, and on 
 her head she wore a gold embroidered 
 cap from which fell a spangled veil. 
 
 Leonidas, with a deep bow, withdrew 
 and closed the door behind him. Feri- 
 dah looked at the Albanian Prince and 
 260
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 smiled, and in one step he was beside 
 her, and held her in his arms. 
 
 "Feridah," he said, "you have 
 come, you have come as I asked you; 
 you love me ?" 
 
 "Yes, Safar," she answered, and her 
 look was a complete surrender. "I 
 love you, and I have come alone." 
 
 Half an hour later Leonidas returned 
 with the first course of the supper on a 
 round brass tray, and found the lovers 
 sitting together on the divan in the room 
 which overlooked the waterfall, amid 
 the splendour of candles and flowers. 
 
 Course after course he carried in and 
 out, and finally when he brought the 
 coffee and bon-bons, it was nine o'clock. 
 Then as he retreated he beckoned to his 
 master, and Abul Abbas followed him 
 into the next room. There he whispered 
 in his ear that all was well, and that he 
 would keep guard, and come just before 
 the dawn and take the lady home. 
 
 Abul Abbas told him that he was the 
 best and most faithful of servants, and 
 gave him a gold piece and he retired, 
 261
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 carefully shutting the door. The lovers 
 were alone and in Paradise. 
 
 IV 
 
 Mukhtar Pacha had stopped for the 
 night at a village which was a three 
 hours' ride from Jaice. He had taken 
 up his quarters in the house of a rich 
 peasant, and midnight found him peace- 
 fully asleep. 
 
 The whole village slumbered, includ- 
 ing the guards on duty at the door, till 
 suddenly the silence was broken by the 
 sound of horses' hoofs at full gallop on 
 the road, and the sentinels were reluc- 
 tantly awakened by a voice that called 
 loudly for Mukhtar Pacha. The Pacha 
 was a soldier, and the Turkish Empire 
 ever in a state of war, so that the guards 
 awoke his body servant, who did not 
 hesitate to rouse his master. Mukhtar 
 was soon awake, and the stranger, who 
 wore the dress of a Franciscan monk, 
 was admitted to his presence. 
 
 "Who are you?" asked the Pacha, 
 262
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 looking at his visitor, "and what do 
 you seek that deserves to break my 
 rest?" 
 
 The monk threw back his cowl, and 
 showed a dark tragic face framed in a 
 wild black beard and bushy hair. 
 
 "I have come," he said, "to warn 
 you to return to Jaice at once; your 
 honour has been betrayed." 
 
 "What do you mean?" cried Mukhtar 
 fiercely, seizing the sword which lay 
 beside him. 
 
 "What I say," replied the monk; 
 "you have a young wife, a Persian whom 
 you love, but who has never loved you 
 in return. Go home and look for her in 
 your harem; you will not find her. 
 She is in the arms of her lover." 
 
 The last words were pronounced with 
 a terrible emphasis. The Pacha was a 
 brave man, but there was something 
 about this strange midnight visitor that 
 chilled his blood. 
 
 "Who," he asked, "is her lover?" 
 
 "The Albanian Prince who is known 
 as Abul Abbas Bey." 
 263
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 Mukhtar sprang to his feet like a 
 tiger. "How do you know this?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "I know everything," replied the 
 monk. "I have the gift of second 
 sight." 
 
 Mukhtar sank back on the divan 
 again. Like most Orientals he was 
 very superstitious. And the monk con- 
 tinued: "Return with me, I will guide 
 you; you will find her in his arms. " 
 
 The Pacha tried to look at him 
 steadily. 
 
 "Why have you come to me?" he 
 asked. "You are a monk and a Christ- 
 ian; I, a Turkish Pacha. What is this 
 to you?" 
 
 "I have made it," replied the monk, 
 "my mission to punish sin." 
 
 Again his tone was terrible. 
 
 "Give me then," said the Pacha, "a 
 proof of your second sight?" 
 
 "I will," replied the monk. " You were 
 
 born at Broussa at the feast of Bairam 
 
 at the third hour of the third day. You 
 
 have a blue mark on your left shoulder. 
 
 264
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 Your second son has inherited it. Your 
 career has been brilliant and successful. 
 At twenty-eight you were made a Pacha, 
 and sent as Governor to Athens. You 
 had one wife, Velie Hanoum. She loved 
 you, and though you had many slaves, 
 none of whom you bought with money, 
 she was jealous of but one, a Greek 
 girl named lanthe. She was the daugh- 
 ter of an innkeeper at Megara, whose 
 inn you burned and whom you had bow- 
 strung in his daughter's presence. The 
 girl resented it. She ran away from 
 you with a young man to whom she was 
 betrothed. You caught and brought 
 them back, the girl " 
 
 "I hung up by her thumbs. She was 
 strong and lived two days." 
 
 "A good punishment," said the monk 
 calmly. " After that Velie Hanoum was 
 no more jealous, but she died ere long, 
 leaving you four fine children. You 
 went to Persia and brought back the 
 beautiful Peridah. She is as white as 
 snow, with eyes like a gazelle, and goes 
 barefooted. You give her too much 
 265
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 liberty. She goes every day to bathe in 
 the river, and three times she has met 
 the Albanian there. Do you believe 
 that I know everything, or shall I tell 
 you more?" 
 
 "Yes," replied the Pacha, "I believe 
 you do. What is your advice?" 
 
 "Return with me to Jaice at once. I 
 have a key which opens every door and 
 will admit you to the Albanian's house. 
 It is unguarded. He has sent his serv- 
 ants out of the way, and you will find 
 him and your wife alone." 
 
 Mukhtar writhed under these last 
 words. The monk looked at him and 
 saw that he loved his wife and what 
 he suffered; and a strange smile flitted 
 across his face. 
 
 "We must start at once," he con- 
 tinued, "or we will come too late. Or- 
 der me a fresh horse ; I have already 
 ridden far and mine is jaded." 
 
 His tone was one of command, which 
 
 the Pacha would not have brooked at 
 
 any other time ; but it seemed as if this 
 
 stranger wielded a mesmeric influence 
 
 266
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 over him which it was impossible to 
 resist. 
 
 "How many men shall I take with 
 us? ' asked the Pacha. 
 
 "None," replied the monk firmly; 
 "you will take your sword, and I will 
 carry your pistols, that I may hand them 
 to you at the right moment. You will 
 find the Albanian not only alone, but 
 unarmed and asleep. It will be a most 
 unequal contest, and to make it more 
 would be unworthy a man as brave as 
 Mukhtar Pacha." 
 
 "You are right," replied the Pacha, 
 whose will bent entirely to the monk's; 
 "but tell me one thing more: you wish 
 the death of the Albanian, and why?" 
 
 "Because he was baptised a Christian, 
 and is a renegade. I have already told 
 you that my mission is the punishment 
 of sin." 
 
 The Pacha was satisfied, called his 
 servants, and ordered that two of his 
 fastest horses should be saddled at once. 
 The man to whom the command was 
 given wondered, but dared ask no ques- 
 267
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 tions and retired. Mukhtar made ready, 
 fastened on his sword, and gave the 
 monk a pair of loaded pistols, which the 
 latter stuck carelessly in the cord 
 around his waist. Then they descended 
 the stairs, mounted their horses, and, 
 to the amazement of the guards and the 
 servant, rode away into the night. 
 
 The way was long and when Mukhtar 
 Pacha knocked with his sword hilt on 
 the gate of Jaice, the dawn already 
 glimmered in the east. The sentinel 
 opened the wicket, and looked out, and 
 then, seeing the Governor attended only 
 by a strange monk, asked no questions, 
 but threw open half the gate. The two 
 wayfarers rode into the town with a 
 clatter of hoofs upon the stones, which 
 sounded strangely loud at this still hour 
 too loud for safety; and the monk 
 whispered to the Pacha to dismount and 
 leave their horses with the sentinel. 
 Mukhtar obeyed without a word, and 
 the two proceeded through the narrow 
 streets on foot. 
 
 All the long way the monk had talked 
 268
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 to him and told him of himself and his 
 own past, till the Pacha was filled with 
 supernatural awe of this strange being, 
 and gave himself unto him entirely. 
 
 When they reached the Albanian's 
 house, the monk drew from his breast a 
 key, and opening the door, they both 
 silently entered. A light burned in the 
 corridor and at the foot of the staircase. 
 The monk pointed to something. The 
 Pacha looked, and saw a pair of yellow 
 morocco boots embroidered round the 
 top in silver. 
 
 Perhaps all along he had hoped to be 
 mistaken; he must have hoped. The 
 monk, looking at him, saw how he shut 
 his eyes and leant for an instant against 
 the wall. "Your wife's boots," he said 
 calmly; "follow me," and he began to 
 mount the stairs. 
 
 The Pacha followed, but his step was 
 slow, and his proud head drooped as it 
 had never done before. He had robbed 
 others of their honour, and thought 
 nothing of it. He had taken young girls 
 from their parents, wives from their 
 269
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 husbands now his own turn had 
 come. 
 
 They entered the first room and saw 
 in the pale light which glimmered 
 through the lattices the burnt out 
 candles and the drooping garlands of 
 faded flowers. In the second room a 
 lantern burned, and here the monk 
 stopped and pointed to an embroidered 
 cap and jacket which lay on the divan 
 beside a spangled veil. "She came," 
 he said, "in the dress of a Bosnian 
 peasant." 
 
 The door to the third room was closed. 
 The monk stopped and knocked once, 
 twice, three times. Then a step was 
 heard inside, some one drew back the 
 bolt, and retreated. The monk opened 
 the door, and the next instant he and the 
 Pacha were in the room. A red glass 
 lantern hung from the ceiling in which 
 a light still flickered, and through the 
 lattice which hung out over the cataract 
 came the first glow of morning. 
 
 On the edge of the divan in a green 
 Turkish caftan sat Abul Abbas only 
 270
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 half awake, and behind him, in her 
 white Bosnian dress, lay Feridah, still 
 asleep. The coffee cups and the bon- 
 bons still stood on the little table, and 
 around the walls hung the burnt out 
 candles and the faded flowers. 
 
 "Dog," cried the Pacha, "false Mos- 
 lem, Christian renegade! Your life 
 shall be the price of my honour!" 
 
 The loud words roused the Albanian 
 fully; he sprang to his feet, and looked 
 about him for a weapon, but in vain. 
 At the same instant Peridah awoke and 
 sat up among the cushions, with a cry 
 of terror. 
 
 The Pacha half drew his sword, and 
 then, convinced that the Albanian was 
 unarmed, let it fall back in its sheath 
 and, turning to the monk, asked for a 
 pistol. The monk drew one from his 
 belt, cocked it, and levelled it straight at 
 the Pacha. Mukhtar, surprised, stepped 
 back towards the window, and once 
 more drew his sword, and the Albanian, 
 with the generous impulse of his nature, 
 started forward as if to interfere. 
 271
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 "Stand aside Abul Abbas," cried the 
 monk, "this hour is mine." 
 
 The Albanian knew the voice, but 
 not the tone. Could it be that the lips 
 which had addressed him only as Bey 
 Effendi, could utter such an imperious 
 command ? 
 
 But he obeyed, for after all he was 
 unarmed, and the Pacha had his sword. 
 He sat down again on the divan, and 
 Feridah in silent terror crept close be- 
 hind him, and clasped her arms around 
 his neck, and thus they both watched the 
 scene. The strange monk kept his eyes 
 fixed upon the Pacha, and his gaze seem- 
 ed to charm him as a snake charms a bird. 
 
 "Mukhtar Pacha," he said, "you do 
 not know me, but I will tell you who 
 I am." Holding the pistol always lev- 
 elled at the Pacha's breast, with his left 
 hand he tore off his false hair and beard, 
 and threw them on the floor. "I am a 
 Greek, Leonidas, the son of the inn- 
 keeper of Megara, whom you had bow- 
 strung in my presence, then a child. I 
 am the brother of lanthe ! " 
 272
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 Here the Pacha gasped for breath, and 
 leant back against the window. 
 
 "You sold me as a slave and as a 
 slave I have lived, lived with one purpose, 
 vengeance on you who took my liberty, 
 my father's life, my sister's honour. I 
 have tracked you, learned your secrets, 
 waited for the time when I could pay 
 you back in your own coin death and 
 dishonour. 
 
 "Mukhtar Pacha, my hour has come 
 at last. You have robbed others of their 
 honour without remorse ; now you know 
 what it is to lose your own. Look at 
 your wife and feel what you have made 
 others suffer." 
 
 Mukhtar's eyes turned for a moment 
 to Feridah, the woman whom he loved, 
 Peridah with her arms around her lover's 
 neck. Then, as if he could not bear the 
 sight, he looked once more straight at the 
 Greek, and again seemed to submit en- 
 tirely to his strange, fatal fascination. 
 
 "Mukhtar Pacha," Leonidas went on, 
 "I have thrown your wife into my mas- 
 ter's arms for my own vengeance. I 
 is 273
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 alone have wrought your dishonour. 
 Now, one thing more, and then my 
 debt is paid Death ! I regret only that 
 it must be so short." 
 
 His eye glanced along the polished 
 barrel of the pistol, taking a cool and 
 steady aim. Then he paused as if to 
 enjoy to the full the moment for which 
 he had waited and worked so long. 
 
 In that moment vengeance was taken 
 out of his hands. The Pacha, with an 
 involuntary movement, for he was brave 
 and had faced death a hundred times, 
 fell back against the lattice. The wood 
 was old and rotted by the constant spray 
 which dashed against it; for a moment 
 it sustained his weight, and then gave 
 way. Mukhtar fell backwards out of 
 the window, over the city wall, down 
 into the cataract ! 
 
 Leonidas rushed to the window and 
 leant out. The sun was rising, and the 
 whole valley flushed with a rosy light. 
 The Verbas, as ever, thundered over the 
 precipice and dashed its spray like 
 pearls high in the air; but nothing, 
 274
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 nothing more was to be seen. Mukhtar 
 Pacha had escaped all earthly vengeance, 
 and fallen into the hands of God. 
 
 The Greek turned back again and saw 
 Peridah overcome by emotion weeping in 
 Abul Abbas 's arms. Quickly he tore 
 off his monk's gown, and casting it aside 
 threw himself on his knees beside the 
 divan, and, seizing his master's hand, 
 covered it with kisses. 
 
 "Bey Effendi," he said, "you have 
 helped me to my revenge!" 
 
 V 
 
 The drama was over ; the avenger had 
 played his part, and once more he was 
 the good servant of his master. Half 
 an hour later he conducted through the 
 streets a Bosnian woman, who knocked 
 and was admitted at the harem en- 
 trance of the Governor's house. Re- 
 turning he roused the cook and scullion, 
 and gave orders for his master's break- 
 fast ; mounted the stairs and took down 
 the candle ends and flowers, and threw 
 275
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 them out of the window after the Pacha, 
 with his monk's gown, and the rem- 
 nants of the broken lattice. 
 
 The sun was up, and nothing remained 
 of last night's love scene, or the dawn's 
 catastrophe. No one knew of Mukh- 
 tar's visit ; and Leonidas, his master, and 
 everything in the house appeared the 
 same as always. 
 
 The Pacha was of course missed by 
 his people in the morning, and the 
 strange tale told by his servants of the 
 unknown monk, who had come at mid- 
 night, and with whom he had gone away 
 alone, furnished no clue, but only added 
 to the mystery. There was no one to take 
 command, and after some confusion, it 
 was decided that his attendants should 
 remain where they were, two only being 
 sent to carry the news to Jaice. 
 
 At noon some monks who were fish- 
 ing in the river just below their monas- 
 tery saw a corpse floating down the 
 stream. With rods and poles they 
 managed to pull it ashore and discovered, 
 instead of that of some unknown peas- 
 276
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 ant, the body of the Governor of Bosnia. 
 Not knowing what to do, they carried 
 it to the monastery, where the abbot 
 ordered it laid in the entrance hall, and 
 sent two messengers to bear the news to 
 the town. Their way, though steep, was 
 short, and they and those who came 
 to look for him met in front of what 
 had been yesterday the Governor's 
 residence. 
 
 Sic transit gloria mundi! 
 
 The Pacha's death was a mystery 
 which none could fathom. The news 
 spread rapidly through the town, and 
 the citizens began to assemble in 
 the principal street. The story of the 
 strange monk who had decoyed the 
 Pacha away in the night was discredited 
 by many, and the one fact remained 
 that his body had been found floating 
 in the river. 
 
 Confusion, threatening to break into 
 disorder, reigned and again there seemed 
 no one to take command. But just at 
 the right moment, Abul Abbas Bey, 
 followed by his servant and acting 
 277
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 entirely under his direction, appeared 
 upon the scene. He was arrayed in his 
 most gorgeous Albanian costume, with 
 a splendour of gold, sables, and jewels, 
 which dazzled and impressed the crowd. 
 They all knew he was a Prince, and in 
 the Orient, the hour belongs to him who 
 knows how to seize and use it. 
 
 In a short speech, in which he had been 
 carefully instructed by Leonidas, he ex- 
 plained to the citizens that he was 
 the adopted brother of the Sultan, and 
 had been sent to Bosnia to assist the 
 Governor in council and in arms; and 
 that now, owing to the sudden and 
 mysterious death of the Pacha, it be- 
 came his duty to take command of the 
 affairs of state, and to fill the vacant 
 place until such time as the pleasure of 
 the Sultan could be known. Where- 
 upon, as no one took it upon himself to 
 raise a dissenting voice, the matter was 
 considered settled, and the Albanian 
 Prince, entering the house and the audi- 
 ence chamber, took the Pacha's empty 
 seat on the divan. 
 
 278
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 The secretaries and other officials 
 were called. Abul Abbas dictated the 
 dispatches to the Sultan, attended to 
 some other small official matters, and 
 then laying the responsibility of the 
 widow and her household upon Achmet's 
 shoulders, and warning him that he 
 would answer for them with his head, 
 he returned to his own house. 
 
 In the afternoon, the body of the 
 Pacha Was carried in solemn procession 
 from the monastery to his late residence. 
 The next day the funeral took place 
 with all the pomp and ceremony which 
 could be managed in the little Bosnian 
 town, and Abul Abbas Bey, the new 
 Governor, ad interim, walked as chief 
 mourner in the funeral train. 
 
 The next day the official inquiry into 
 the death of the Pacha was begun, Abul 
 Abbas conducting the investigation (al- 
 ways under the guidance of Leonidas). 
 There were four witnesses, the Pacha's 
 servant and two guards who had seen 
 him leave his hunting quarters with the 
 monk, and the sentinel who had admit- 
 279
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 ted him, still attended by the same 
 strange companion, into the town of 
 Jaice. 
 
 The Pacha's body had borne no mark 
 of any weapon, but was bruised and 
 battered from being knocked against 
 the rocks, and it seemed probable that 
 he had fallen from the city wall into the 
 cataract. No one could be found who 
 had ever seen or heard of the strange 
 monk before. His gown was found 
 floating down the river, but he was not 
 in it, and there all evidence and testi- 
 mony ended. Murder will come to 
 light, but Mukhtar Pacha had not been 
 murdered, but simply overtaken by 
 the vengeance of Heaven and his death 
 remained a mystery. 
 
 There was but little mourning in the 
 Pacha's household. Peridah, after the 
 first horror of the shock, found herself 
 more happy than she had ever hoped 
 to be at being thus liberated from a 
 chain which she had found so heavy. 
 And the slaves, poor flowers, plucked 
 from their own lands by the ruthless 
 280
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 hand of Mukhtar, began to dream once 
 more of home and liberty. 
 
 Peridah had told her nurse all that 
 had happened, but the good woman was 
 not merely discreet, she could speak no 
 language but Persian, and thus for two 
 good reasons the secret went no farther. 
 Achmet was left in entire ignorance of 
 what had occurred, and devoted himself 
 to the interests of Abul Abbas and 
 Leonidas, which he now believed to 
 be his own. 
 
 The forty days of mourning which 
 Feridah was obliged to observe pre- 
 vented her leaving the house so that it 
 was impossible for her to meet her lover 
 in the kiosk, but every day Achmet 
 carried back and forth the love letters 
 which they wrote each other. 
 
 Abul Abbas had written a private 
 letter to the Sultan, in which he had 
 told him the whole story of his amours, 
 confessed that he had broken the law 
 of Islam, and begged his imperial foster 
 brother to consent to his marriage with 
 Peridah. With impatience he awaited 
 281
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 the Sultan's answer, but the way from 
 Jaice to Constantinople was long and 
 difficult, and it was not till late Sep- 
 tember, four weeks after the death of 
 Mukhtar, that the messenger returned. 
 But when he came at last, the hopes of 
 the Albanian were more than fulfilled. 
 The Sultan not only consented to his 
 marriage with the widow of Mukhtar 
 Pacha, but appointed him his successor 
 as Governor of Bosnia. It seemed one 
 of those rare turns in life when there is 
 nothing more to be desired. 
 
 With the messenger returned the 
 oldest son of Mukhtar to arrange and 
 settle up his father's temporal affairs. 
 The Pacha having died without a will, 
 his property was distributed according 
 to the Turkish law, which gives one 
 eighth to the widow, and of the re- 
 mainder, two portions to each son, one 
 to each daughter. 
 
 The young man proposed to Feridah 
 to take everything then in Bosnia, in- 
 cluding all the slaves. This proposi- 
 tion she accepted gladly, for it was her 
 282
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 desire to restore to liberty the Greek 
 and Albanian girls who had composed 
 the harem of her late Lord. They 
 were all Christians, and as such Leoni- 
 das, without whose advice nothing was 
 any longer undertaken, was admitted 
 to their presence to assist them in decid- 
 ing about their fate. Among them he 
 found one whom he had known in child- 
 hood, at home in Megara, and as she 
 was willing to link her life with his, he 
 asked and received her from her mis- 
 tress, and their marriage was celebrated 
 at the Church of the Monastery in the 
 valley. Of the others, such as wished 
 it were re turned, as the occasion offered, 
 to their homes, and the others, who had 
 grown fond of their captivity, remained. 
 Every one found it natural and right 
 that Abul Abbas Bey should marry 
 Feridah Hanoum. The wedding was 
 accordingly fixed to take place three 
 weeks later. In the meantime, as Jaice 
 was only the summer residence of the 
 Governor, and it began to grow chilly 
 in the mountains, the whole party 
 283
 
 The Heart of Bosnia 
 
 removed to the larger and more commod- 
 ious town of Sarajevo, the real capital 
 of Bosnia. And there, on the fourteenth 
 day of October, was celebrated with all 
 the splendour, so dear to the Oriental 
 heart, the marriage of Abul Abbas and 
 Feridah. 
 
 And Leonidas? The vengeance for 
 which he had lived and worked and 
 waited was now accomplished, and he 
 was satisfied. Abul Abbas had given 
 him his liberty, and Feridah had pre- 
 sented him his Greek wife. But he 
 thought no more of Megara, and cast in 
 his lot for ever with that of the Albanian, 
 being wise enough to see that there are 
 few positions better than to be the serv- 
 ant of an obedient and powerful master. 
 His influence was indeed absolute with 
 Abul Abbas, who was a soldier, but not 
 a statesman, and until the return of the 
 latter to Constantinople in 1826, after 
 the overthrow and annihilation of the 
 Janissaries, Leonidas the Greek was the 
 real Governor of Bosnia. 
 
 284
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 285
 
 THE SWEET WATERS OP ASIA 
 A Modern Turkish Tale 
 
 IT was a glorious May day on the Bos- 
 phorus. The water glittered in 
 the sunlight, pale blue and silver, stirred 
 by the wheels of steamboats and the 
 countless oars of innumerable caiques 
 into dazzling and endless reflections 
 like a pavement of restless jewels. 
 
 Pera and its endless suburbs spread 
 along the European shore, its white 
 palaces bathing their terraces in the 
 shining water, its gardens climbing the 
 hills behind, and ending its long vista 
 with the grey and frowning towers of 
 Roumeli Hissar. And on the Asiatic 
 shore oh ! scene of enchantment, which 
 no pen can describe! the Anatolian 
 hills, pink and purple and yellow with 
 their glory of flowers ; the country houses 
 287
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 laden with wisteria, the orchards in 
 blossom, and the clusters of deep pink 
 Judas trees; the picturesque villages, 
 and the summer palaces of Beys and 
 Pachas embowered in gardens and nest- 
 ling close to the water's edge, and all 
 ending just as on the other side with 
 the old Castle of Anatoli Hissar. And 
 beyond, the Black Sea. 
 
 Close beside the village of Tchingelt- 
 chin stood the country house of Ezzid 
 Pacha : in front a garden, then the Salam- 
 lik, and then, connected by a covered 
 passage and surrounded by its high- 
 walled garden, the real palace the 
 harem. 
 
 Ezzid Pacha was old and belonged 
 to the conservative party, but his only 
 son leaned toward the new ideas and, 
 being in the Diplomatic Corps, had been 
 away long years from home, and was 
 now Ambassador in Rome. Ezzid 
 Pacha's three daughters had long since 
 married, and had gone with their hus- 
 bands to different parts of the Turkish 
 Empire, and the only child of his race, 
 288
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 whom he and his wife, Adilah Hanoum, 
 still guarded with them, was their son's 
 daughter, the little Mihri Hanoum. The 
 Pacha loved a large household in the 
 old style, and there were many slaves 
 in the harem, besides two widows, 
 poor cousins, for whom he provided and 
 who served as maids of honour for Adilah 
 Hanoum. 
 
 The only addition to the household 
 whom he did not like was the French 
 governess, whom Rechad l2ey, his son, 
 had sent, four years before, to educate 
 his daughter. Her presence, Ezzid Pacha 
 resented unceasingly, and sought to 
 put difficulties in her way by obliging 
 her to conform to all Turkish rules. 
 Never was she allowed to leave the 
 house, except like a Turkish woman in 
 yashmak and ferejeh. 
 
 But the time of deliverance was at 
 hand, for Mihri had reached her six- 
 teenth year, and her marriage was the 
 next event on the tapis. Like many 
 Turkish girls, she had been betrothed 
 from infancy to the grandson of a friend 
 19 289
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 of Ezzid Pacha's (another Pacha, rich 
 and influential), and the consumma- 
 tion of the nuptials only waited the 
 return of the young man from Vienna, 
 where he was studying in one of the 
 military schools. 
 
 The harem palace was a large 
 square building, two stories high, with 
 a wing running towards the hills. A 
 central hall, dignified by the usual im- 
 posing Turkish staircase, and sur- 
 mounted by a dome of coloured glass, 
 was surrounded on each floor by a circle 
 of large airy rooms, furnished and deco- 
 rated in Oriental style. In a room on 
 the ground floor,whose walls ran straight 
 down into the water, and where one 
 could fish from the window with ease, 
 Mihri Hanoum was sitting with her 
 suite, idle and happy, after the manner 
 of their race. 
 
 The French woman only was busy 
 with her embroidery, or moderately busy, 
 for she turned constantly and looked 
 through the window lattice, as if always 
 expecting something which never came. 
 290
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 She was a thin brown woman of forty 
 perhaps, who had been pretty, and 
 looked as if she might have had a history. 
 
 On the floor sat Mihri's nurse, a negress 
 of middle age named Hosnah, whose 
 black eyes and white teeth shone with 
 smiles of constant good humour, and 
 who was dressed in a combination of the 
 brightest colours, and loaded with gaudy 
 trinkets and earrings and bracelets of 
 massive gold. On the crimson divan sat 
 Mihri herself, one foot hanging over the 
 edge with her gold-embroidered slipper 
 half off, and the other doubled under 
 her in a true Oriental attitude; and be- 
 side her a Circassian girl named Ikbal, 
 who had been brought in infancy to be 
 her companion, and from whom she was 
 inseparable. 
 
 Mihri was the ideal of Turkish beauty, 
 well rounded, dimpled, and graceful as a 
 faun. Her complexion was like cream 
 and roses, her lips were full and red as 
 a pomegranate blossom, and her teeth 
 like pearls. Her face was, perhaps, a 
 little round and her nose a little flat, but 
 291
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 both were in accordance with her type. 
 Hair like black silk curled on her fore- 
 head and hung in two thick plaits 
 below her waist. Her eyebrows looked 
 as if they were painted with Indian ink, 
 and her black lashes shaded long, black, 
 velvet eyes, such as are found only in 
 the Orient. She was dressed in a long 
 pelisse of crimson velvet open at the neck, 
 and embroidered in seed pearls, bracelets 
 of different coloured stones encircled her 
 arms, bare to the elbow, and around 
 her neck hung a long string of pearls. 
 
 Ikbal was a real Circassian, red and 
 white, with blue eyes and masses of 
 red-golden hair, a peasant of the mount- 
 ains with the beauty of youth and 
 health; but no one could look at the 
 two young girls and hesitate as to which 
 one was the princess and which the 
 slave. She was dressed in bright lilac 
 and wore gold bracelets and a long string 
 of amber beads. The colour effect of 
 the whole group was most brilliant and 
 Oriental. 
 
 The two young girls were excited at 
 292
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 something which the negress had just 
 related, and which she now repeated 
 with great effect. 
 
 "Yes, I heard it myself. The Pacha 
 Effendi said to Adilah Hanourn, ' Murad 
 Bey has returned from Vienna." 1 
 
 "Then," cried Ikbal, "Mihri will be 
 married soon. I wish I could be married 
 too, but I could not leave you, Mihri, 
 and I would rather wait and see how 
 you like being married, first." 
 
 "I wonder," said Mihri, "what he is 
 like." 
 
 "Murad Bey," said Hosnah, "oh! 
 he is a handsome young man." 
 
 " You do not know, nurse," said Mihri ; 
 "you only say so because you think he 
 ought to be." 
 
 "Oh," said Ikbal, "suppose he was 
 cross-eyed or had a hook nose." 
 
 " Hush, Ikbal, how can you say such 
 things!" 
 
 "Perhaps," said the governess, "the 
 Pacha will arrange that you can see 
 him from the window." 
 
 "Grandfather is so strict!" sighed 
 2 93
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 Mihri. "How delightful it must be in 
 Prance where one can not only see, but 
 talk with, one's fianc!" 
 
 "Do not envy our customs," said 
 Mademoiselle; "we have much to suffer 
 that you are spared." 
 
 " And what? " asked Ikbal. " If I could 
 go to balls and dance with young men 
 and have them make love to me, I would 
 not care what I had to suffer." 
 
 "Ikbal!" exclaimed Hosnah, indig- 
 nantly, " such words are not fit for Mihri 
 Hanoum to hear. If you say anything 
 more I will tell the Hanoum Effendi. 
 You are a disgrace to the harem of a 
 Pacha." 
 
 But Ikbal only threw herself back 
 on the divan and laughed; nobody was 
 afraid of Hosnah 's threats. 
 
 "I would like to see him," repeated 
 Mihri, "and why not? I know it is the 
 privilege of other girls." 
 
 "We must see him," said Ikbal, "and 
 we will." 
 
 Mademoiselle looked out of the win- 
 dow again. 
 
 294
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 "You will see him on your wedding 
 night," she said, "and after that, for 
 all the rest of your life. And you will 
 love him because you know no one else, 
 and there can be none before or after 
 him. In Prance there are lovers : men 
 who seek young girls out and love them 
 for a while and then leave them and 
 never come back!" 
 
 "Oh well," said Ikbal, "if I had a 
 lover at all, I would take my chances." 
 
 There was a silence, and then Mihri 
 asked her governess if they were not 
 going out that afternoon. 
 
 "Surely," said Mademoiselle; "the 
 Hanoum Effendi wishes us to go out 
 every afternoon now that we are in the 
 country." 
 
 "Where shall we go?" cried Ikbal; 
 "across to Dolma Batche?" 
 
 "No," replied Mihri, "we will go to 
 the place I love best, and where we have 
 not been since last summer, the Sweet 
 Waters of Asia." 
 
 An hour later Mihri Hanoum and 
 her suite were on their way up the 
 
 2 95
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 Bosphorus in a caique with two rowers 
 and an elderly Armenian servant, who 
 always accompanied them, seated in 
 the bow. Mademoiselle and the nurse 
 were wrapped in black silk ferejehs, 
 but the young girls, according to the 
 Turkish custom, wore theirs bright 
 coloured. Mihri's pink and Ikbal's blue. 
 All wore the yashmak, which consists of 
 a white gauze turban over an embroid- 
 ered cap, and a veil beginning below 
 the eyes, a veil so transparent that, 
 instead of hiding, it only enhances, the 
 beauty of the wearer, and thus fails 
 entirely in the purpose for which it was 
 ordained by the Prophet. 
 
 The caique was rowed swiftly up the 
 Bosphorus till it reached that little 
 palace whose doors are ajl of fluted 
 green grass, and whose marble stair- 
 case flows from it like a frozen cascade. 
 Here they went more slowly, and the 
 young girls looked with lively interest 
 to see if there were any other picnickers 
 like themselves, for in May the Sweet 
 Waters of Europe are still the fashiona- 
 296
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 ble resort, and it was not yet the season 
 for the Sweet Waters of Asia. 
 
 The boat stopped at that delicious 
 lawn, shaded with splendid trees and 
 ornamented with that exquisite fount- 
 ain, than which Turkish art has no finer 
 work to show. The ladies went on 
 shore and strolled about under the trees 
 a bit. But there was no one here ex- 
 cept the man who sells bright-coloured 
 cakes at a stall, a shepherd followed by 
 a flock of milk-white sheep, and two or 
 three idlers of the lower classes, so that 
 they soon returned to the boat, and, 
 turning from the Bosphorus, rowed into 
 that winding stream, the Sweet Waters 
 of Asia. 
 
 The place seemed deserted. The 
 caique glided between the banks luxu- 
 riant and wild with tangled green. Over- 
 head the willows leaned, and in many 
 places met, so that one caught only 
 glimmerings of the sky between, and the 
 light itself was green. Mihri and Ikbal 
 chattered gaily, but suddenly Made- 
 moiselle held up a warning finger, and 
 297
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 another caique came swiftly up behind 
 them, and, suddenly slackening its speed, 
 floated along side by side with theirs. 
 
 In it, beside the rowers, sat two young 
 Turkish officers, resplendent in their 
 uniforms of black and gold, to which a 
 dash of colour was added by their red 
 fezes. One of them was pale and insig- 
 nificant, the sort of man one does not 
 look at twice; but the other, on whom 
 the eyes of both young girls were at once 
 riveted, was a real Prince of the Arabian 
 Nights. He was the very embodiment 
 of the Turkish ideal of masculine beauty : 
 fine, clear-cut features, a complexion of 
 that golden hue which one finds some- 
 times in Italy, but only at perfection 
 in the Orient ; the red blood flushing in 
 the cheeks, and crimson on the lips; 
 jet black hair and brows, a small lightly 
 curled moustache, and eyes as long and 
 black and bright as Mihri's own. 
 
 The unknown returned the young 
 
 girl's gaze. Caught by Ikbal's bright 
 
 hair, his eyes rested first on her, but 
 
 only for a moment, then turned to Mihri 
 
 298
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 and lingered on her as if spellbound. 
 Mihri at first returned his look with 
 pleasure, but it grew too intense and, 
 blushing, she looked down. Still feeling 
 his eyes upon her, she turned away and, 
 leaning over the side of the caique, 
 looked down into the water. The 
 Armenian motioned to the rowers to go 
 faster, and the caique shot around a 
 turning in the little river. 
 
 "What a beauty!" whispered Ikbal 
 in Mihri's ear. "If Murad Bey could 
 only be like that." 
 
 Mihri did not answer, but, looking up, 
 she saw the strange caique again beside 
 them, and the young officer's eyes again 
 fastened upon her. And being a woman, 
 Mihri once more looked at him. Their 
 eyes rested on each other for a moment, 
 and then his caique shot ahead around 
 another turn in the little river. 
 
 Mihri was now really excited. She 
 looked at her governess, but Made- 
 moiselle's back had been turned to the 
 strangers, and as usual her thoughts 
 seemed far away. Ikbal began to whis- 
 299
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 per in Mihri's ear, and the caique went 
 slowly up the stream, past the place 
 where the open air concerts are held, 
 with the lattice screen on the other bank 
 behind which the ladies sit, and at the 
 third turning they came upon the strange 
 boat again, lying upon its oars. 
 
 This time the young officer leant for- 
 ward with a reckless eagerness and 
 gazed at Mihri as if he could not turn 
 his eyes away. And alas ! in spite of the 
 good bringing up of Hosnah, Made- 
 moiselle, and Adilah Hanoum, Mihri 
 looked at him and smiled. 
 
 But this time Hosnah caught the look, 
 and turning, saw to whom it was di- 
 rected. She hastily whispered in Made- 
 moiselle's ear, and the latter turned 
 to the rowers and uttered the single 
 word, "Tchingeltchin," in a tone which 
 they did not fail to understand. The 
 caique whirled round so swiftly that 
 her stern struck the bow of the other 
 boat, and both rocked from the collision. 
 Ikbal and Hosnah screamed, but Mihri 
 only turned and looked over her shoulder 
 300
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 as she was borne away, and the young 
 officer, with unheard of boldness, leant 
 forward and kissed his hand to her. 
 
 Back again through the green wind- 
 ings of the enchanted river, past the 
 velvet lawn, the fountain, and the palace, 
 the caique floated once more in the blue 
 and silver of the Bosphorus. Hosnah 
 scolded both the girls with perfect im- 
 partiality till she lost her breath, but no 
 one minded her scolding, and Made- 
 moiselle, whose disapproval was much 
 more serious, remained silent and pen- 
 sive, and said nothing. When they 
 reached home again, they went into 
 the garden, and Mihri and Ikbal talked 
 of nothing but their adventure for the 
 rest of the evening. In the springtime 
 of life, each little event is magnified, 
 and the girls are the same in the Orient 
 as in the Occident. 
 
 The next morning when at ten o'clock, 
 as usual, Mihri Hanoum went to kiss 
 the hand of her grandmother, followed 
 by her suite, it was evident to them, 
 when they entered the antechamber, 
 301
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 by the stir and flutter among the slaves, 
 that something unusual was going on. 
 With some excitement, therefore, they 
 entered the special salon and the august 
 presence of Adilah Hanoum. 
 
 This salon, large and square, with 
 three windows at one side, was painted 
 and gilded with flowers, birds, and a blue 
 sky in the Italian style. The curtains 
 and divans were of yellow satin em- 
 broidered in gold ; a magnificent Persian 
 rug covered the floor ; and mirrors of all 
 shapes and sizes, in frames of gold, silver, 
 and inlaid woods, decorated the walls; 
 at one side, in a niche, a stream of water 
 flowed into an alabaster shell. In the 
 centre of the room stood an antique 
 brass brazier on a massive tray, and 
 over it hung one of those glass chande- 
 liers which are made in Bohemia for 
 the Oriental market, all red and green 
 and gold. 
 
 It was a typical modern Turkish 
 salon of the highest class, a room in 
 which the eye sought for rest, but con- 
 soled itself with glitter and colour in- 
 302
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 stead. It presented not the real and 
 artistic splendour of the Orient, but the 
 afterglow of the modern East. 
 
 Adilah Hanoum was seated on a divan 
 between her two cousins, The'me'ne and 
 Edibai Hanoum. She was a tall and im- 
 posing-looking woman, still handsome in 
 her sixtieth year. She wore a long robe 
 of purple satin, an India scarf hanging 
 over her shoulders (like the ladies in the 
 books of beauty) and on her head a 
 turban made out of a white silk hand- 
 kerchief and fastened with a diamond 
 pin. The two cousins were not particu- 
 lar about their dress, and wore old wrap- 
 pers of faded silk, though their turbans 
 were of immaculate white, and equally 
 immaculate white stockings adorned 
 their feet, for, like many other Oriental 
 women, they loved to walk about with- 
 out their slippers in the house. They 
 were both elderly, and The'me'ne took 
 snuff out of a silver box, while Edibai 
 always had a cigarette in her mouth. 
 
 Mihri advanced and kissed her grand- 
 mother's hand, and after her Made- 
 33
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 moiselle, Hosnah, and Ikbal repeated 
 this act of homage. 
 
 "Mihri," said Adilah Hanoum, "sit 
 beside me. I have something to tell 
 you." 
 
 Whereupon the two cousins arose and 
 moved several paces down the divan, 
 and Mihri and her governess took their 
 places, while Ikbal and Hosnah tran- 
 quilly seated themselves on the floor. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said the Hanoum, 
 addressing the governess first, in Tur- 
 kish, (the only language she spoke, and 
 which the Frenchwoman had long since 
 learned) , " you have been with us now 
 four years, and I take for granted that 
 you have in that time taught my grand- 
 daughter everything which it is necessary 
 for her to know." 
 
 "Madame," replied the governess, "I 
 have taught her all that she desired to 
 learn." 
 
 Adilah Hanoum accepted the answer 
 and we may accept the fact that Mihri 
 was not over-educated. 
 
 "Her education being then finished," 
 34
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 pursued the Hanoum, "the time for 
 her marriage has arrived. Being trans- 
 ferred to the care of her husband, she 
 will no longer need a governess ; but you 
 will remain with us as long as you desire, 
 and if that be for ever." 
 
 "Madame," replied the Frenchwoman, 
 "I thank you for all your kindness, but 
 when Mihri Hanoum is married, I will, 
 if you permit me, return to France." 
 
 The Hanoum then turned to Mihri. 
 
 "My child," she said, "your be- 
 trothed, Murad Bey, has returned to 
 Stamboul. His grandfather, Hafiz Pacha, 
 was here yesterday. . He and Ezzid 
 Pacha have arranged everything, and 
 the marriage will take place in June." 
 
 "So soon!" cried Mihri; "but dear 
 grandmother, I do not like " 
 
 "My child," said the Hanoum, "you 
 will like whatever your grandparents 
 arrange for you. They know best." 
 
 Mihri took her grandmother's hand 
 
 and kissed it. "I beg your pardon, 
 
 grandmother," she said, "but I have one 
 
 thing to ask, may I not see Murad Bey ? " 
 
 20 35
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 "If it can be conveniently arranged," 
 replied the Hanoum, "but here it is 
 difficult, for our windows do not com- 
 mand the entrance to the Salamlik; but 
 we will see. To-day I am going to 
 Stamboul to choose the stuffs for your 
 trousseau." 
 
 "May I go with you?" asked Mihri. 
 
 "No, I think it better not. My 
 cousins will accompany me, and I shall 
 also take Hosnah, since the nurse has 
 the right to be consulted in a matter of 
 such importance." 
 
 Ikbal began to beg that Mihri and 
 herself might go too, and Adilah 
 Hanoum, who had a weakness for the 
 irrepressible Circassian, began to hesi- 
 tate, when Mihri herself cut the argu- 
 ment short, saying, "No, it is better not. 
 We will go instead to the Sweet Waters 
 of Asia." 
 
 Ikbal said no more, and neither Mad- 
 emoiselle nor Hosnah thought of the 
 adventure of yesterday, but had Adilah 
 Hanoum only known the reason of her 
 granddaughter's docility, she would 
 306
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 certainly have been taken to the bazaars. 
 
 The ladies departed for Stamboul, and 
 the young girls amused themselves for 
 the morning in the garden, and four 
 o'clock saw them once more in their 
 caique on their way to the Sweet Waters 
 of Asia. Mademoiselle seemed more ab- 
 sorbed than ever. Her gaze was fixed 
 with intensity on the shining Bosphorus, 
 and the flowering Asiatic hills, but she 
 saw nothing but the dim grey coast of 
 France. Mihri and Ikbal were excited 
 with that delicious excitement of early 
 youth, blended of hope and fear. They 
 looked about them on all sides and had 
 not long to wait. 
 
 At the very mouth of the Sweet 
 Waters the caique of yesterday lay 
 rocking on the ripples, the boatmen 
 resting on their oars. In it was the 
 handsome young officer, but instead of 
 his former companion, a good-looking 
 young man with fair hair, evidently a 
 foreigner, and perhaps a German or 
 Austrian officer. 
 
 The moment their caique approached 
 37
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 Mihri felt the black eyes fixed on her, 
 and she did not resist the temptation of 
 returning the glance and with a smile. 
 Ikbal, who now felt that she had some- 
 thing to live for also, looked at the blond, 
 and he returned her look, and seemed 
 quite ready to meet her half-way. 
 
 The ladies' boat moved slowly up the 
 stream, and the strangers', which had 
 evidently been waiting for them, fol- 
 lowed. The Sweet Waters were as 
 deserted as they had been the day be- 
 fore, and the two boats, keeping close 
 together, floated through all the wind- 
 ings of the little river, and the occupants 
 of the boats had its green glimmerings 
 all for themselves. Mademoiselle no- 
 ticed nothing, and though the Armenian, 
 who sat as usual in the bow, took in the 
 situation very well, it was not his place 
 to interfere. The two young men gazed 
 at the girls uninterruptedly, and they 
 (alas! that it must be told) looked at 
 them over their shoulders every other 
 moment. It was an ideal Turkish love 
 scene. 
 
 308
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 High up the stream they found a bed 
 of violets. Mihri had a fancy for the 
 purple flowers, so they alighted on the 
 soft green bank among the tangled 
 ferns, and each of the young girls picked 
 herself a great bunch of violets. 
 
 The men dared not follow, for the 
 south bank on which the violets grew 
 is the ladies' shore, and sacred to them 
 only. They remained instead in their 
 caique, and on the backward route, 
 being in the lead, they looked backward 
 to meet the smiling eyes of the girls that 
 were turned upon them. 
 
 When they reached the mouth of the 
 Sweet Waters, Ezzid Pacha's rowers 
 shot ahead. Mihri turned back for one 
 more look, and yielding to a sudden 
 impulse, threw her violets into the water. 
 A ripple washed them to the other boat ; 
 the young officer leaned forward, picked 
 them up, and pressed them to his lips and 
 to his heart. 
 
 When they reached home, the harem 
 was in the liveliest state of excitement. 
 Adilah Hanoum and her suite had re- 
 
 309
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 turned from Stamboul, and had brought 
 with them silks, muslins, velvet and 
 gold embroideries, the choice of the 
 bazaars. The slaves were all in the 
 salon unrolling and examining the stuffs 
 before putting them away. Twilight 
 was falling, but all the candles were lit 
 in the bell glasses of the Bohemian 
 chandelier. 
 
 Adilah Hanoum was not present, 
 which removed all restraint, but The"- 
 me'ne Hanoum sat in one corner taking 
 snuff and Edibai Hanoum in another 
 telling her beads and smoking the usual 
 cigarette; while Hosnah stood in the 
 midst of an excited group relating the 
 adventures of the bazaar. The scene 
 was one to which no feminine heart 
 could remain cold. Mihri and Ikbal 
 threw themselves into the situation 
 without reserve. No one asked them 
 about their adventures, and for the 
 moment, they forgot them themselves. 
 
 The next day Adilah Hanoum was 
 very much occupied with the arrange- 
 ments for the trousseau. Every one in 
 3"
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 the harem was busy and Mihri and 
 Ikbal ran about like a couple of will-o' 
 the-wisps, until Adilah Hanoum de- 
 clared that they were in everybody's 
 way, and ordered Mademoiselle to take 
 them out of the house. 
 
 "Where, Madame?" asked the gover- 
 ness. 
 
 "Any quiet place where they will be 
 out of mischief. The Sweet Waters of 
 Asia." 
 
 Destiny ! To the Sweet Waters of Asia 
 they went, and Mihri 's lover was already 
 waiting for her there. The foreigner 
 was with him again, so that Ikbal also 
 had an occupation. 
 
 But this time they led the way up 
 the stream, and Mihri 's boat followed. 
 A better arrangement, since the Ar- 
 menian and the rowers had their backs 
 towards the strangers, while Mihri and 
 Ikbal to look at them did not have to 
 turn round. 
 
 The Turkish officer held in his hand 
 a single long-stemmed red rose, such as 
 were not yet in bloom in the gardens of 
 3"
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 the Bosphorus, and when the narrowest 
 part of the Sweet Waters had been 
 reached, he laid it gently on a ripple, and 
 it floated down to Mihri, who caught it 
 in her left hand as if it had been a water 
 lily. She held it, looked at it, but 
 dared not kiss it, and only bent her 
 pretty head and inhaled its perfume. 
 
 "Mihri," said her governess, breaking 
 suddenly from her reveries, "where did 
 you get that rose? " 
 
 "I found it in the water," answered 
 Mihri. 
 
 Mademoiselle looked around uneasily, 
 observed the other boat, and caught a 
 glance from the Armenian, which showed 
 her that something was wrong. 
 
 "We will go home," she said, "back 
 to Tchingeltchin." 
 
 The caique turned round and was 
 rowed slowly down the stream but the 
 other caique followed, and when they 
 reached the meadow with the fountain 
 it did not stop as usual but still followed 
 at a little distance down the Bosphorus. 
 Mihri and Ikbal were frightened at this, 
 312
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 and only dared to look back over their 
 shoulders now and then. Their boat 
 went on and stopped at their own garden 
 stairs, and the other one came on and 
 passed, and they saw nothing more, for 
 the garden door was shut behind them. 
 
 But just below was the regular village 
 landing and here the strangers stopped, 
 alighted, and entered a little cafe. The 
 host, an obsequious Syrian, came for- 
 ward and made them welcome. Coffee 
 and cigarettes were quickly brought and 
 presently the young officer asked care- 
 lessly, "Whose is the long white house 
 with the two gardens?" 
 
 "That, Bey Effendi," replied the 
 Syrian, "is the house of Ezzid Pacha." 
 
 "And who are the ladies who just 
 entered there from their caique?" 
 
 "Ah," said the Syrian, who now saw 
 the trend of these remarks, "that is the 
 Pacha's granddaughter and her gover- 
 ness, and a slave who is always with 
 her. In summer we see them every 
 day." 
 
 "Your coffee is very good," said the
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 officer, and rising to go, he tossed him 
 a piece of gold. 
 
 The next day it rained so that Mihri 
 could not go out, but owing to the prepa- 
 rations, it was a busy one in the harem. 
 In the afternoon, Ezzid Pacha sent for 
 his granddaughter, and had a long talk 
 with her, in which he explained to her 
 all the arrangements for, and conditions 
 of, her marriage, a mark of consideration 
 by which Mihri was duly impressed. 
 
 The wedding would take place in a 
 month, and Mihri heard to her great 
 relief that she was not to leave home 
 but would continue to live with her 
 grandparents. The long unused wing 
 of the harem was to be fitted up for 
 her occupation. 
 
 Hafiz Pacha and his family lived in 
 Broussa, and he came only occasionally 
 to Constantinople, as now, to meet his 
 son. Murad Bey, however, was to be 
 stationed there, having received a com- 
 mission in the Sultan's guards, so that 
 this was the best, in fact, the only suita- 
 ble arrangement.
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 In the subject of her dowry, Mihri 
 was too young to be interested, but she 
 thanked her grandfather with much 
 grace and sweetness for all he was doing 
 for her, without troubling herself to 
 think what it was. When, however, at 
 the end of the conversation, he told her 
 that she would be given her mother's 
 diamonds, she was indeed pleased, and 
 kissed the Pacha's hand with a very 
 real and lively gratitude. 
 
 Her destiny was now fixed, and she 
 accepted it with Oriental resignation. 
 But at the same time she felt that she 
 had one more month to enjoy herself, 
 and the next afternoon saw her once 
 more with her suite on her way to the 
 Sweet Waters of Asia. 
 
 The day was warm and bright, and 
 there were several boats on the little 
 stream, and some people strolling on the 
 banks among the ferns, but to Mihri the 
 place seemed empty, for her lover was 
 not there. 
 
 On their return home, they found the 
 harem again in a state of commotion.
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 Hafiz Pacha and Murad Bey had ar- 
 rived and were with Ezzid Pacha in the 
 Salamlik. 
 
 "Had you been a little sooner," whis- 
 pered Themene Hanoum in Mihri's 
 ear, "you would have seen him. He 
 and his father landed in the village, and 
 walked around the garden wall, so that 
 we who were sitting in the kiosk, saw 
 them very well." 
 
 "What is he like? " asked Mihri. 
 
 "Oh, a fine young man," replied 
 The'me'ne, "but all young men look 
 alike to me." And she took a pinch 
 of snuff. 
 
 Two or three of the slaves who had 
 seen him also described him, much more 
 in detail, but in their excitement, their 
 descriptions differed so materially that 
 Mihri knew no more about her fiance' 
 than she did before, and as he and his 
 father remained to supper with Ezzid 
 Pacha there was no possibility of seeing 
 him again that night. 
 
 The next morning the workmen, who 
 were to fit up the wing, arrived, and for
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 that and the two succeeding days, Adi- 
 lah Hanoum took her granddaughter, the 
 two cousins, the governess, and Ikbal 
 (from whom Mihri would never be sepa- 
 rated) out to visit various families of 
 relatives, up and down the Bosphorus. 
 
 Mihri liked visiting as a rule, but now 
 she felt a strange impatience and a 
 desire to be elsewhere, and she longed, 
 with a longing that was more than fancy, 
 to see her unknown lover once more. 
 At last, on the fourth day, her desire 
 was fulfilled; she went again to the 
 Sweet Waters and found him awaiting 
 her there. 
 
 There was, as on the last occasion, a 
 number of other people on the water 
 and on the banks, which made any 
 demonstrations impossible. Mihri and 
 her lover could only look at each other, 
 but as their boats kept close together, 
 this they did to their hearts' content. 
 
 The meetings continued for some days, 
 and at the same time the preparations 
 for the marriage progressed, and the 
 wedding day approached.
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 The excitement of the adventure had 
 carried Mihri along so far, but now her 
 joyous mood changed suddenly to melan- 
 choly, for now she realised what she 
 had done. She was in love with one 
 man, and about to be married to another. 
 Young as she was, her heart told her 
 what this meant, but her love was greater 
 than her fear of the unhappiness which 
 must follow, and she did not try to save 
 herself. Every day she still went to 
 the Sweet Waters, and every day her 
 lover met her there. 
 
 Sometimes he was accompanied by 
 the foreigner, who always flirted with 
 Ikbal, sometimes by the officer who had 
 been with him at first, and sometimes 
 he was alone. But always, he showed 
 that he had come for the sole purpose 
 of seeing Mihri, and it was as real a 
 love affair as is possible in the Orient. 
 That it should have been allowed to 
 proceed was the unusual element in the 
 situation. 
 
 Its continuance was owing to several 
 favouring circumstances. Mademoiselle
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 was distrait and took no notice. Ikbal 
 was in full sympathy. Hosnah was so 
 interested in what was going on at home 
 that she very seldom accompanied the 
 party; and Adilah Hanoum was, of 
 course, in ignorance of the whole affair. 
 
 And so it drifted on. Almost every 
 afternoon saw the lovers at the Sweet 
 Waters of Asia ; Mihri joyous and think- 
 ing of nothing else for the time, but, 
 on her return home, losing all her spirits 
 and sinking into melancholy and silence. 
 The latter mood aroused but little com- 
 ment, for the reason that the other 
 inmates of the harem thought it merely 
 affected and quite proper for a bride- 
 elect, and besides she was most of the 
 time, with her own attendants and apart 
 from the rest. 
 
 What preyed most upon her mind was 
 the thought of what would happen after 
 her marriage. Would she still go to 
 the Sweet Waters and still meet him 
 there, and if so, what then? She lay 
 awake at night and thought of this as 
 she had never thought of anything be- 
 3*9
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 fore, and by day she discussed it with 
 Ikbal, but it was a question to which 
 they could find no answer. 
 
 The month of May was passing. The 
 weather grew warmer and more brilliant 
 every day, and the roses bloomed in the 
 gardens of the Bosphorus. The prepa- 
 rations were almost completed, and the 
 wedding day drew near. A few more 
 trips to the Sweet Waters, a few more 
 love scenes, and already it was June. A 
 brilliant crescent glimmered in the east 
 and Mihri looked at it, and knew that 
 when it was full she would be a bride. 
 
 Every evening, after the workmen had 
 left, the ladies and slaves went in with 
 candles in bell glasses to inspect the 
 progress in the bridal apartments. The 
 first room was decorated in white and 
 gold with panels in crimson brocade. 
 The furniture, which had been ordered 
 in Vienna, had not yet arrived, but 
 already there hung from the ceiling a 
 crystal chandelier. 
 
 The bedroom, which came next, was 
 Oriental, papered with a bright Chinese 
 320
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 paper and furnished with yellow satin 
 curtains and divans. A large, gilded, 
 Turkish bed with a square canopy stood 
 at one side, but the curtains and coverlet 
 had not yet come home. Beyond were 
 two small rooms, which were fitted up 
 as dressing-rooms, half European, half 
 Oriental in style. The young people 
 were to take their meals with the family, 
 so that there was no occasion for a din- 
 ing-room and the lower floor of the 
 wing had been left undisturbed. 
 
 All this was for her and for her hus- 
 band, but Mihri observed it all with 
 but a languid interest. This was her 
 destiny, but she hardly wondered any 
 longer what Murad Bey was like. She 
 only felt that he was not the one she 
 loved. 
 
 A few days more and the furniture 
 arrived from Vienna, gilded tables and 
 chairs and sofas in crimson, brocade, 
 crimson curtains, and two beautiful 
 mirrors in gold frames. Everything 
 was rich, florid, baroque and dear to 
 the Oriental eye and heart. 
 
 ai 321
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 Then two inlaid Damascus tables and 
 a magnificent inlaid chest were placed 
 in the yellow room, and the hangings 
 for the bed, white satin embroidered 
 in gold. Last of all there was hung 
 from the ceiling a wonderful old silver 
 lamp, from which the twinkling lights 
 looked out through pink glass, filling 
 with a rose-coloured twilight the bridal 
 chamber. Persian rugs were laid on 
 all the floors, perfumes were sprinkled 
 about, and all was furnished and ready. 
 
 Mihri went for the last time to the 
 Sweet Waters of Asia. Her lover was 
 waiting for her and his look was radiant. 
 But Mihri was so sad that she could 
 hardly smile. He could know nothing 
 of her approaching marriage, or that 
 this meeting was their last; but she, 
 alas! could think of nothing else, and 
 when her eyes met his, they filled with 
 tears. One last look at parting, a long 
 farewell to love. 
 
 Then she was rowed back along 
 the Bosphorus, and when she reached 
 homej she shut herself up alone with 
 322
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 Ikbal, and gave way to a passion of 
 tears. It was over ; the rose had faded 
 and dropped its petals, and left only the 
 thorn in her hand. Mademoiselle was 
 wrong, one could be just as happy and 
 just as unhappy in Turkey as in Prance. 
 
 Why had they ever met? Why had 
 she gone to the Sweet Waters of Asia? 
 The next day was the one before the 
 wedding. In the evening the contract 
 was to be signed; and on this occasion 
 there is always what one would call a 
 stag party in the Salamlik, including 
 the male relatives and friends of both 
 sides. 
 
 In the harem, only the ladies re- 
 lated to the family and a few of Adilah 
 Hanoum's old friends were assembled. 
 
 When they had all arrived and were 
 seated around the grand salon, Mihri 
 was led in by two young girls (as is the 
 invariable custom in the East) whom 
 we would call the bridesmaids. She 
 wore a dress of white Servian muslin, 
 striped with pink and gold, and her 
 beautiful hair fell unadorned in its two 
 323
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 long plaits for the last time. To-mor- 
 row she would wear the bridal turban. 
 
 Custom requires the Oriental bride 
 to walk with feigned reluctance and to be 
 dragged along by the young girls who 
 conduct her. For Mihri, this required 
 no effort; her reluctance, alas! was real. 
 She was led first to her grandmother, 
 before whom she knelt to receive her 
 bridal gift. Adilah Hanoum gave her 
 an inlaid Mecca casket in which, on 
 purple velvet, glittered the diamond 
 necklace and tiara which had been her 
 mother's. Mihri received the jewels in 
 silence, kissed both her grandmother's 
 hands, and rising went on round the 
 circle, receiving from each one her bridal 
 gift, and kissing all the ladies' hands. 
 
 The gifts varied: some were jewels, 
 some gold and silver, some scarfs and 
 shawls, and some ftacons of perfume. 
 The'me'ne and Edibai Hanoum, being 
 poor dependents, had nothing to give; 
 but, that they might not be left out, one 
 had been given the diamond bracelets, 
 and the other the earrings of Mihri 's 
 324
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 mother, and they now presented them 
 with imperturbable dignity and grace. 
 Hosnah and Ikbal, who followed Mihri, 
 took the presents from her, and carried 
 them into the next room, where they 
 were locked up in two glass cabinets. 
 
 When the presentations were over, 
 Mihri took her place between the brides- 
 maids on the divan, little tables were 
 brought in by the slaves, and a supper 
 in many courses was served. After- 
 wards the ladies sat smoking cigarettes 
 for a while, and the party was an early 
 one, that they might all be fresh for the 
 morrow. By ten o'clock, they had all 
 kissed the bride and had said good-night. 
 
 The next day was cloudless, beautiful, 
 and sweet with the scent of roses. All 
 the morning the entire household of 
 Ezzid Pacha was in a state of intense 
 excitement. Arches of coloured lan- 
 terns and glittering balls were erected at 
 the entrance of the two gardens, and gar- 
 lands of flowers were hung over the doors. 
 Inside, the choicest rugs and cushions 
 were placed about; all the chandeliers 
 325
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 filled with wax candles ; perfumes sprin- 
 kled, and vases and bowls of roses scat- 
 tered everywhere. 
 
 At three o'clock, Mihri Hanoum re- 
 tired to her room to be dressed, and at 
 five the company began to arrive, a 
 crowd of caiques succeeding each other 
 in line at the entrances to the Salamlik 
 and the harem, and a few carriages also 
 driving up on the land side. 
 
 Ezzid Pacha, Hafiz Pacha, and the 
 bridegroom, Murad Bey, received their 
 guests in the salon of the Salamlik, and 
 they were arranged according to rela- 
 tionship and rank on the divans where 
 they were to sit talking and smoking 
 cigarettes for hours with Oriental pa- 
 tience and serenity. 
 
 In the harem, the scene was much 
 more brilliant. The slaves all had 
 new dresses for the occasion, and were 
 brilliant as a bed of tulips in crimson 
 and purple and pink. 
 
 Adilah Hanoum received her guests 
 standing between her cousins, in the 
 yellow salon, in a long trained Turkish 
 326
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 dress of purple velvet embroidered in 
 gold. On her head she wore a diamond 
 tiara and a cap of point lace, and dia- 
 monds glittered about her like stars of 
 a summer night. 
 
 The ladies were all dressed in their 
 best, and each one brought with her 
 her favourite slave, also in gala attire; 
 and the effect of colour and the glitter 
 of gold and jewels was such as can be 
 seen nowhere but in the Orient. Slaves 
 ran about with baskets of cigarettes and 
 the ladies were soon all seated in the 
 various rooms smoking and chatting 
 gaily, awaiting the appearance of the 
 bride. 
 
 At six o'clock the two bridesmaids 
 arose from their places, and went in 
 search of the bride. Everyone waited 
 in breathless excitement, and in a few 
 moments the procession appeared. 
 Two eunuchs (lent for the occasion by 
 friends, since Ezzid Pacha kept none 
 himself), in frock coats and fez, walked 
 first, tossing money in the air, which 
 was eagerly picked up by the slaves. 
 327
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 Then came the two bridesmaids, one 
 in white and one in blue, leading one by 
 each hand the bride, Mademoiselle, 
 Hosnah, and Ikbal bringing up the rear. 
 
 Mihri was dressed in modern Turkish 
 style, or what we should call a princess 
 dress, of white gauze spangled with 
 gold over pink satin, cut V-shaped in 
 the neck and clasped around her waist 
 with a flexible girdle of gold. On her 
 head she wore the bridal turban of white 
 tulle, which made a background for her 
 diamond tiara, and from it hung the two 
 invariable skeins of gold wire over her 
 shoulders, down almost to the ground. 
 The diamond necklace, bracelets, and 
 earrings, and a large medallion of 
 diamonds and pearls, which her father 
 had sent her from Rome, completed her 
 attire. She made a beautiful and re- 
 splendent Turkish bride. 
 
 The procession moved across the 
 central hall, all the women following 
 in excited confusion, and entered the 
 salon of the bridal apartments, where, 
 facing the entrance door, had been 
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 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 erected the bridal throne. This, as us- 
 ual, consisted of a raised dais covered 
 with crimson satin, and a crimson canopy 
 with long sweeping curtains supported 
 by two columns, from which hung two 
 long thick skeins of gold wire, like those 
 worn by the bride. 
 
 Under the canopy two heavy gilt 
 chairs stood side by side, and in one of 
 these Mihri was placed, while Ikbal, 
 gorgeous in sky-blue brocaded in sil- 
 ver and a turban of spangled tulle, sat 
 at her feet, and fanned her with a fan 
 of peacock feathers. All the women 
 walked around her and admired her to 
 their hearts' content, and Mihri sat and 
 looked straight in front of her, appa- 
 rently calm and unmoved. She was 
 unhappy, and thought, with the despair 
 of youth, which knows no hope (and is so 
 soon forgotten) , to be unhappy always ; 
 but she was an Oriental and outwardly, 
 at least, she had accepted her destiny. 
 
 For half an hour she sat there, and 
 then returned to her own apartments, 
 while the dinner was served. The 
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 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 bridesmaids rejoined the other ladies, 
 and Hosnah and Ikbal alone remained 
 with the bride, serving her with the 
 many courses of the banquet, and vainly 
 coaxing her to eat, for she could not. 
 
 After dinner various amusements were 
 provided for the guests, such as singing 
 and dancing girls, and an East Indian 
 woman who delighted them with jug- 
 gling tricks. 
 
 Then came the second entree of the 
 bride, who was led in by her brides- 
 maids and seated on the throne to be 
 admired as before, the principal differ- 
 ence being that she had changed her 
 dress to one of white satin embroidered 
 in gold, though her turban, her gold 
 skeins, and her jewels were still the 
 same. Another half-hour she spent in 
 presence of the company, and then once 
 more retired. 
 
 The time wore on, and at length the 
 eunuchs, who ran backwards and for- 
 wards between the harem and the 
 Salamlik, announced that the bride- 
 groom had started for the mosque, and 
 330
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 all the women crowded to the front 
 windows to watch through the lattices 
 for his return. In a quarter of an hour 
 their patience was rewarded by the 
 sight of a long line of glimmering lights 
 coming down the lane beyond the garden 
 walls. Twelve servants walking first, 
 easily counted as they were all in white, 
 and then a double line of red fezes, black 
 coats and uniforms, the young friends 
 of Murad Bey, and in their midst the 
 bridegroom himself, quite undistinguish- 
 able from the rest. - 
 
 The procession turned the corner, 
 and was lost to sight, and now most of 
 the ladies began to put on their yash- 
 maks and ferejehs and to take their 
 leave. Only the relatives remained, and 
 they assembled solemnly in the salon 
 of Adilah Hanoum, while the house 
 slaves all in their yashmaks waited in 
 the central halL The hour of midnight 
 had struck, and with it the great moment 
 had come. 
 
 The bride appeared for the third time, 
 still in her white dress, but this time
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 covered from head to foot with a gold- 
 striped veil. She was led to the crim- 
 son salon, and stood there like a statue 
 with Hosnah and Ikbal veiled behind 
 her. 
 
 A prayer rug was spread beside her. 
 Adilah Hanoum and Mademoiselle took 
 their places opposite, and everyone else 
 withdrew. There was a pause of a 
 moment or two, but to Mihri it seemed 
 like an hour. 
 
 Then footsteps were heard in the hall, 
 the portiere was lifted, and the two 
 eunuchs, each with a lighted candle in a 
 bell glass, entered the room, followed by 
 the bridegroom. Mihri 's veil was thick 
 and through it she distinguished only 
 the red fez and the gold that glittered 
 on his uniform. Murad Bey advanced, 
 knelt on the rug, turning towards Mecca, 
 said his prayer, touched the ground with 
 his forehead three times, and then arose. 
 
 For a moment he seemed to hesitate, 
 
 and then, encouraged by a sign from 
 
 Adilah Hanoum, took the bride's veil 
 
 by the hem, and lifted it slowly. Hoshan 
 
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 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 and Ikbal pulled it from behind, and 
 suddenly it came off entirely, and Mihri 
 stood revealed in all her splendour. 
 
 Murad Bey clasped his hands with a 
 cry of delight, and Mihri looked at him 
 and saw her lover of the Sweet Waters 
 of Asia. The crimson salon reeled and 
 swam around her. Rainbows danced 
 before her eyes, and music of unearthly 
 sweetness sounded in her ears. 
 
 For Murad there was no surprise. He 
 had known since their third meeting, 
 when he had followed her home, that 
 the young woman with whom he had 
 fallen in love at first sight was his own 
 betrothed; and, with that manly su- 
 periority which takes everything for 
 granted, he had supposed that Mihri 
 knew him also. But now he read in her 
 eyes and in her smile, and in the sunset 
 flush that mantled in her cheeks, the 
 glory and the joy of her surprise. 
 
 They loved each other, and their love 
 
 did not and had never needed words. 
 
 They only needed, as now, to look at 
 
 each other. The first act of an Oriental 
 
 333
 
 The Sweet Waters of Asia 
 
 husband must be to give his bride a 
 present; Murad, remembering this a 
 moment later, drew from his pocket, 
 a medallion of rubies and diamonds, 
 in the centre of which was his miniature 
 painted on ivory, and gave it to Mihri, 
 who pinned it on over her heart. Then, 
 taking her by the hand, he led her up 
 on the dais, where they took their places 
 in the two gilt chairs. 
 
 Adilah and the other women hastened 
 to leave the room, and the portieres 
 were dropped behind them. They were 
 alone and now indeed they spoke, words 
 of love and sealed with kisses, but words 
 and kisses which we have no right to see 
 or hear. The relatives and friends are 
 all gone, and we must follow. The 
 entertainment is over, and the candles 
 are being put out. 
 
 " Oh sweet illusions of the brain! 
 
 Oh sudden thrills of fire and frost I 
 The world is bright while ye remain! 
 And dark and dead when ye are lost." 
 
 334
 
 Appendix 
 
 335
 
 THE FLOWER OF DESTINY 
 
 The loves of Ferhad and Sira have 
 been a favourite theme of the Oriental 
 poets, who have told their story in many 
 different ways. This story is entirely 
 my own and rests on the single his- 
 torical fact that Sira, a Christian slave 
 and the favourite of Chosroes whom she 
 ruled by her beauty and wit, had a 
 lover named Ferhad, a young man of 
 wonderful beauty. 
 
 The history of Chosroes is sufficiently 
 dramatic to need no embellishment. 
 The Mohammedan writers ascribe all 
 his misfortunes to his impious act in 
 tearing the letter of Mohammed. 
 
 After his defeat by Heraclius, he was 
 driven not indeed into exile again, but 
 from place to place in his own kingdom, 
 and was finally murdered in the year 
 628 by Siroes his son and the son of 
 337
 
 Appendix 
 
 Sira, this end making the vengeance of 
 Heaven complete. 
 
 To the shade of Ferhad, I must offer 
 my sincere apologies. He was neither 
 a traitor to his country nor to his love, 
 but remained true to Sira to the end; 
 but had I told the story thus there 
 would be no moral. 
 
 THE LAST OF THE FATIMITES 
 
 This is not an historical tale. The 
 chronological setting and the sketch 
 of Saladdin are correct; but Ali Amr, 
 Rikaiya, Tchagane, and the other act- 
 ors are entirely my own creation. 
 
 THE NEW MOON OF ISLAM 
 
 Lew Wallace makes this Hassan the 
 victim of Murza who hurls him from 
 the walls. A fiction which needs no de- 
 nial, as Iskander Bey (George Castriot), 
 the original of Murza, had already in the 
 lifetime of Murad deserted the standard 
 of the Turks, and we can more readily 
 forgive the wilful murder of Hassan 
 
 338
 
 Appendix 
 
 than the idealisation of Iskander, who 
 was a traitor. 
 
 This tale is founded on an historical 
 fact, or what passes for such. Moham- 
 med the Second, being accused by his 
 soldiers of having become the slave of 
 love, brought out his favourite and 
 killed her in their presence to prove 
 them wrong. 
 
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