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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
              VOL. XXXVII.      October, 1850.      NO. 4.

                           Table of Contents

                    Fiction, Literature and Articles

          The Slave of the Pacha
          Music
          Pedro de Padilh
          Edda Murray
          Thomas Johnson
          Early English Poets—George Herbert
          Teal and Teal Shooting
          The Fine Arts
          Review of New Books

                       Poetry, Music and Fashion

          A Night at The Black Sign
          Sonnets: Suggested by Passages in the Life of
            Christopher Columbus
          To a Friend—with a Bunch of Roses
          Spring Lilies
          The Earth
          Alone—Alone!
          The Name of Wife
          Sonnet.—The Olive.
          Sin No More
          Wordsworth
          Inspiration. To Shirley.
          Sonnets, On Pictures in the Huntington Gallery
          Thinking of Minna
          The Maiden’s Lament for Her Shipwrecked Lover
          The Years of Love
          Ah, Do Not Speak So Coldly
          Le Follet

       Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

[Illustration: THE SLAVE OF THE PACHA.

Painted by W. Brown and Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by J.
  Brown]

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

        VOL. XXXVII.     PHILADELPHIA, OCTOBER, 1850.     NO. 4.

                        THE SLAVE OF THE PACHA.

                         A TALE OF ASIA MINOR.

                      FROM THE FRENCH OF SAINTINE.

I was botanizing lately in the woods of Luciennes, with one of my
friends, a distinguished Orientalist and renowned botanist, who had, a
few years since, traveled six thousand miles, and risked his life twenty
times, in order to obtain a handful of plants from the slopes of the
Taurus or the plains of Asia Minor. After we had wandered for some time
through the woods, gathering here and there some dry grass and orchis,
merely to renew an acquaintance with them, we lounged toward the
handsome village of Gressets and the delightful valley of Beauregard,
directing our steps toward a breakfast, which we hoped to find a little
further on, when, beneath an alley of lofty poplars, on the left of the
meadows of the Butard, we saw two persons, a man and a woman, both
young, approaching us.

My companion made a gesture of surprise at the sight of them.

“Do you know those persons?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Of what class, genus and species are they?” I used the words merely in
their botanical sense.

“Analyze, observe and divine,” replied my illustrious traveler.

I determined then on applying to my individuals, not the system of
Linnæus, but that of Jussien, that of affinities and analogies. The
latter appeared to me to be more suitable and easier than the former.
The young man was dressed in a very simple and even negligent style,
wearing those high heeled shoes, three-quarter boots, which have
succeeded the half boots, (boots, since the introduction of comfort
among us, having steadily lessened,) and had not even straps to his
pantaloons. A pearl colored sack, colored shirt, and traveling cap with
a large visor, completed his costume.

Near him walked a young woman, of the middle height and finely formed,
but with such an air of indolence in her movements, flexibility of the
body, and jogging of the haunches, as proclaimed a southern origin or a
want of distinction. They advanced with their heads down, speaking
without looking up, and walking side by side without taking arms, but
from time to time one leant on the shoulder of the other, with a
movement full of affection.

It was not until we crossed them that I could see their figures; until
then I had been able to study only their costume and general outline.

The young man blushed on recognizing my companion, and saluted him with
a very humble air; I had scarcely time, however, to catch a single
pathognomic line of his face. The female was very handsome; the elegance
of her neck, the regularity of her features, gave her a certain air of
distinction, contradicted, however, by something provoking in her
appearance.

When they had passed on some distance, my friend said to me:

“Well, what judgment do you pass on our two persons?”

“Well,” replied I, positively, “the young man is your confectioner, who
is about to marry his head shop-girl;” but reading a sign of negation on
the countenance of my interrogator—“or a successful merchant’s clerk,
with a countess without prejudices.”

“You are wrong.”

I asked for a moment’s reflection, and, to render my work of observation
perfect, I looked after them.

They had reached, near the place where we were, the side of a spring,
called, in the country, the “Priest’s Fountain.” The young female had
already seated herself upon the grass, and drawing forth a napkin spread
it near her, whilst the young man drew a paté and some other provisions
carefully from his basket.

“Certainly,” I said to myself, “there are, evidently, in the face of
this beautiful person, traits both of the great lady and the grisette;
but, on thinking of her rolling fashion of walking, and especially
judging of her by the appearance of her companion, then stooping to
uncork a bottle, and whose unstrapped pantaloons, riding half way up his
leg, revealed his quarter boots, the grisette type prevailed in my
opinion.”

“The lady,” I replied, but with less assurance than at first, “is a
figurante at one of our theatres, or a female equestrian at the Olympic
circus.”

“There is some truth in what you say.”

“He is a lemonade seller.” I judged so from the practiced facility with
which he appeared to open the bottle.

“You are farther from the mark than ever,” said my companion.

“Well, then, let us talk about something else.”

Once at the Butard we thought no more of our two Parisian cockneys.
Whilst they were preparing our breakfast, and even whilst we were
breakfasting, my friend naturally recommenced speaking of his travels in
the Taurus and Anti-Taurus, in the Balkan, the Caucasus, on the banks of
the Euphrates, and then, to give me a respite from all his botanical and
geological descriptions, he related to me, piece by piece, without
appearing to attach the least importance to them, a story, which
interested me very much. He had collected the details of it (the scene
of which was laid not far from the shores of the Black Sea, between
Erzerum and Constantinople) from the lips of one of the principal actors
in it.

I endeavored to reduce it to writing when with him, not in the same
order, or disorder, as to events, but at least so far as regards their
exactness, and availing myself of the knowledge of persons and places
acquired by my traveler.

                               CHAPTER I.

Toward the middle of the month of July, in the year 1841, in the
pachalick of Shivas, in the vast gardens situated near the Red River, a
young girl, dressed in the Turkish costume, was walking slowly, with her
head bent down, followed by an old negress. At times she turned her head
rapidly, and when her eyes, through the massive maples and sycamores,
rested on the angle of a large building, with gilded lattices and
balconies of finely carved cedar, her complexion, usually pale, became
suddenly suffused, her small foot contracted against the ground, her
breast heaved, and she restrained with difficulty the sigh that
endeavored to escape.

Silent and pre-occupied she stopped, and with her finger designated a
plantain tree to the negress. The latter immediately entered an elegant
kiosk, a few paces distant, and returned, bearing the skin of a tiger,
which she placed at the foot of the tree. After the old negress had
passed and repassed several times from the skin to the kiosk, and from
the kiosk to the skin, the young girl seated herself, cross-legged, on
the latter, leaning against the plantain tree, on a cushion of black
velvet, holding carelessly in her left hand an ornamented pipe, with a
tube of Persian cherry, and in her right, in a small stand of filagreed
gold, shaped like an egg-cup, a slight porcelain cup, which the old
slave replenished from time to time with the fragrant Mocha.

Baïla was seventeen years old; her black and lustrous hair, parted over
her temples, resembled the raven’s wing; her eye-brows thin, and forming
a perfect arch, though of the same color as her hair, were, as well as
her long eye-lashes and the edge of the lids, covered with a preparation
of antimony, called _sourmah_. Still other colors had been employed to
heighten the lustre of her beauty; the carnation of her lips had
disappeared beneath a light touch of indigo; and, by way of contrary
effect, beneath her eyes, where the fine net work of her veins naturally
produced a light blue tint, the purple of the henna shone out. The
henna, a kind of vegetable carmine, much used in the east, also blushed
upon the nails of her hands and feet, and even upon her heels, which
peeped out, naked, from her small, beautiful sandals, embroidered with
gold and pearls.

Though thus tattooed, in the Asiatic fashion, Baïla was none the less
beautiful. Her costume consisted simply of a velvet caftan, muslin
pantaloons, embroidered with silver, and a cashmere girdle; but all the
knicknackeries of Oriental luxuriousness were displayed in her toilet.
The double row of sequins which swung on her head, the large golden
bracelets which covered her arms and graced her ankles, the chains, the
precious stones which shone on her hands and her corsage, and which
shook on the extremities of her long flowing hair and glittered on her
very pipe stem, graced in a singular manner her youthful charms.

The better to understand what kind of astonished admiration her
appearance might at this time produce, we should add that of the old
black slave, who, from her age as well as color, her short, thick
figure, her dull and heavy look, formed so striking a contrast with the
fresh beauty of Baïla, her fine and supple figure and her glance, still
lively and penetrating, notwithstanding the deep thought which then half
veiled it.

The better to lighten up this picture we must suspend over the heads of
these two females, so dissimilar, the beautiful blue sky of Asia, and
describe some incidents of the land, some singularities of the local
vegetation which surrounded them.

Some paces in advance of the plantain against which Baïla was reclining,
was a small circular basin of Cipolin marble, from which sprang a jet,
in the form of a sheaf, causing a delicious freshness to reign around. A
little farther on were two palm trees, which, springing up on either
hand and mingling their tops, presented the appearance of two columns,
forming an arcade of verdure. But before this entrance, judging from
appearances, the shadow even of a man should never appear. Baïla
belonged to a jealous master; her beauty, heightened by so much art and
coquetry, was to grow, blossom and flower for him alone.

From the foot of the palm trees parted a double hedge of purple beeches,
of silvery willows, of nopals of strange forms with saffron tints, and
of various shrubs with their many colored flowers and fruits. The
dog-shades, with their stars of violet colored velvet, the night-shades,
with their scarlet clusters involved amidst the mimosas, out of which
sprang the golden features of the cassia. Mingling their branches with
the lower branches of the plantain, the mangroves hung like garlands
above the head of Baïla, their large leaves hollowed into cups, and so
strangely bordered with flowers and fruits of orange color mixed with
crimson.

Farther back, behind the plantain, on a reddish, sandy spot, grew large
numbers of the ice plant, presenting to the deceived vision the
appearance of plants caught by the frost during the winter in our
northern climes, and the glass work covered the ground with crystalized
plates.

The picture was soon to become animated.

The magnificent eastern sun, sinking toward the horizon and throwing his
last flames beneath the verdant pediment of the palm trees, caused the
earth to sparkle as if covered with diamonds. His rays, broken by the
glittering sheaf in the basin, spread across those masses of flower and
foliage, rainbows, superb in golden and violet tints; they flashed from
the plantain to the variegated cups of the mangrove, and lighted up the
whole form of Baïla, from her brow, crowned with sequins, to her
spangled slippers; they even mingled with the smoke of her narghila, and
with the vapor of the Mocha, which arose like a perfume from the
porcelain cup, and glistening on the skin of the tiger on which she was
seated, appeared to roll about in small vague circles.

When the night breeze, rising, gently agitated the flowers and the
herbage, mingling in soft harmony all those zones of light and shade,
was it not a subject of regret that a human eye could not gaze upon the
beautiful odalisk, in the midst of those magical illusions, shining in
the triple splendor of her jewels, her youth, and her beauty?

And, yet, a man was to enjoy this bewitching scene, and that man not her
master.

Mariam, the old negress, was asleep at the foot of the tree, holding in
her hands the small mortar in which she had bruised the coffee to supply
the demands of her mistress. Baïla, half dozing, was holding out,
mechanically, toward her the china cup, when a man suddenly appeared
between the two palm trees.

At the sight of him the odalisk at first thought she was dreaming; then,
restrained by a feeling, perhaps of alarm, perhaps of curiosity,
remained quiet, immovable, without speaking—only the cup which she held
fell from her hands.

The stranger, who was a young Frank, having first made a motion as of
flight, became emboldened and approached her, with a heightened color
and trembling lips, arising from a too lively emotion or from an excess
of prudence on account of the negress. He merely inquired from Baïla the
way to the city.

He expressed himself very well in Turkish; she did not appear, however,
to understand him. What! a stranger, eluding the vigilance of guards,
had crossed the double circuit of the gardens which enclosed her—had
braved death—merely to ask his way!

Restored to a feeling of her situation, she rose, with an offended air,
drew from her girdle a small dagger, ornamented with diamonds—a
plaything, rather than offensive or defensive arms—and made an
imperious sign to him to retire.

The young man recoiled before the beautiful slave, with an appearance of
contriteness and embarrassment, but without ceasing to regard her
earnestly. He appeared to be unable to remove his eyes from the picture
which had riveted his attention; still, however, undecided and muttering
confused words, he was crossing the porch of the palm trees, when the
negress suddenly awoke.

At the sight of the shadow of a man, which reached into the enclosure,
she sprang up, uttering a cry of alarm.

“What are you doing?” said Baïla, placing herself before her, doubtless
from a feeling of pity toward the imprudent youth.

“But that shadow—do you not see it? It is that of a man!”

“Of a bostangy! Who else would have dared to enter here?”

“But the bostangis should be more careful. Has not our master prohibited
them from entering the gardens when we are here—when you are here? A
man has entered, I tell you; I saw his shadow.”

“Of what shadow are you speaking? Stop—look!” and Baïla stopped before
the negress.

“I saw it,” repeated the negress.

“The shadow of a tree—yes, that is possible.”

“Trees do not run, and it appeared to run.”

“You have been dreaming, my good Mariam,” and Baïla maintained so well
that no one had been there, that she had seen nothing, but in a dream,
that Mariam submissively feigned to believe her, and both prepared to
return to the house.

They were half way there when, on turning an alley, the negress uttered
a new cry, pointing to an individual who was escaping at full speed.

“Am I dreaming this time?” she said, and she was about to call for
assistance, when the odalisk, placing her hand on her mouth, ordered her
to keep silence. Mariam, who was devoted to her mistress, obeyed her.

Having returned to her apartment, Baïla reflected on her adventure.
Adventures are rare in a harem life. She was intriguing there
desperately, and would have been disquieted had she not had other cares.
These, in their turn, occupied her thoughts.

In thinking of them she became fretful, angry; she crushed the rich
stuffs which lay beside her. She even wept, but rather from passion than
grief.

Since the preceding evening Baïla was doubtful of her beauty; since then
she cursed the existence to which she had been condemned, and regretted
the days of her early youth. To remove from her mind the incessant idea
which tormented her, she essayed to remount to the past. She found
there, if not consolation, at least distraction.

The past of a young girl of seventeen is frequently but the paradise of
memory—a radiant Eden, peopled with remembrances of her family, and
sometimes of a first love. It was not so with Baïla; her family were
indifferent to her, and her first love had been imposed upon her.

She was born in Mingrelia, of a drunken father and an avaricious mother.
They, finding her face handsome and her body well proportioned, had
destined her, almost from the cradle, for the pleasures of the Sultan.
Her education had been suitable for her destined state. She was taught
to dance and sing, and to accompany herself in recitative; nothing more
had ever been thought of.

Although her parents professed externally one of the forms of the
Christian religion, had they sought to develop the slightest religious
instinct in her? What was the use of it? The morality of Christ could
but give her false ideas and be entirely useless to her in the brilliant
career which was to open before her.

But if the beautiful child only awakened toward herself feelings of
speculation, if she was, in the eyes of her parents, but a piece of
precious merchandise, she, at least, profited in advance by the
privileges it conferred upon her.

Whilst her brothers were unceasingly occupied with the culture of their
vineyard, with the gathering of grapes and honey—whilst her sister, as
beautiful as herself, but slightly lame, was condemned to assist her
mother in household cares, Baïla led a life of indolence. Could they
allow her white and delicate hands to come in contact with dirty
furnaces, or her well-turned nails to be bruised against the heavy
earthen ware, or her handsome feet to be deformed by the stones in the
roads? No—it would have been at the risk of injuring her, and of
deteriorating from her value.

Thus, under the paternal roof, where all the rest were struggling and
laboring, she alone, extended in the shade, having no other occupation
than singing and dancing, passed her life in indolence, or in regarding
with artless admiration the increase and development of her beauty, the
wealth of her family.

The common table was covered with coarse food for the rest; for her, and
her alone, are reserved the most delicate products of fishing and
hunting. Her brothers collected carefully for her those delicate bulbs,
which, reduced to flour, make that marvelous _salep_, at once an
internal cosmetic and a nutritive substance, which the women of the East
use to aid them in the development of their figures, and to give to
their skin a coloring of rosy white.

If they were going to any place, Baïla traveled on the back of a mule,
in a dress of silk, whilst the rest of the family, clothed in coarse
wool or serge, escorted her on foot, watching over her with constant
solicitude. Truly, a stranger meeting them by the way, and witnessing
all these cares and demonstrations, would have taken her for an idolized
daughter, guarded against destiny by the most tender affections.

If her father, however, approached her, it was to pinch her nose, the
nostrils of which were a little too wide; and her mother, as an habitual
caress, contented herself with pulling her eyebrows near the temples, so
as to give the almond form to her eyes.

Sometimes the husband, seized suddenly with enthusiasm on seeing Baïla
exhibit her grace when dancing by starlight, would say in a low voice to
his wife—

“By Saint Demetrius, I believe the child will some day bring us enough
to furnish a cellar with rack and tafita enough to last forever;” and a
laugh of happiness would light up his dull face.

“If we should be so unfortunate as to lose her before her time, it will
be ten thousand good piastres of which the Good God will rob us,”
replied his worthy companion; and she shed a tear of alarm.

Baïla was thirteen years old, when a barque ascending the Incour,
stopped at a short distance from the hut of the Mingrelian. A man
wearing a turban descended from it. He was a purveyor for the harem,
then on an expedition.

“Do you sell honey?” he said to the master of the hut, whom he found at
the door.

“I gather white and red.”

“Can I taste it?”

The honest Mingrelian brought him a sample of both kinds.

“I would see another kind,” said the man with a turban, with a
significant glance.

“Enter then,” replied the father of Baïla, and whilst the stranger was
passing the threshold, hastening to the room occupied by his wife, he
said to her—

“Be quick; the nuptials of thy daughter are preparing; the merchant is
here; he is below; arrange her and come down with her.”

At the sight of Baïla, the merchant could not restrain an exclamation of
admiration; then almost immediately, with a commercial manœuvre he threw
up her head, preparing to examine her with more attention.

During this inspection the young girl blushed deeply; the father and
mother seeking to read the secret thoughts of the merchant in his eyes
and face, kept a profound silence, beseeching lowly their patron saint
for success in the matter.

The man in the turban changing his course, and as if he had come merely
to lay in a supply of honey, took up one of the two samples deposited on
a table, and taking up some with his finger tasted it.

“This honey is white and handsome enough, but it wants flavor. How much
is the big measure?”

“Twelve thousand,” the mother hastened to reply.

“Twelve thousand paras?”

“Twelve thousand piastres.”

The merchant shrugged his shoulders—“You will keep it for your own use
then, my good woman.” He then went toward the door.

The woman made a sign to her husband not to stop him. In fact, as she
had foreseen, he stopped before reaching the door, and turning toward
the master of the house said—

“Brother in God, I have rested beneath your roof. In return for your
hospitality, I give you some good advice. You have children?”

“Two daughters.”

“Well, have an eye to them, for the Lesghis have recently descended from
their mountains and carried off large numbers in Guriel and Georgia.”

“Let them come,” replied the Mingrelian, “I have three sons and four
guns.”

The merchant then made a movement of departure, but having cast a rapid
glance on Baïla, he raised his right hand with his five fingers
extended.

Baïla, red with shame, cast on him a look of contempt and took the
attitude of an insulted queen. Thanks to that look and attitude, in
which he doubtless found some flavor, the merchant raised a finger of
his left hand.

The Mingrelian showed his ten fingers, not however without an angry
glance from his wife, who muttered, “it is too soon.”

“Honey is dear in your district,” said the man with the turban; “I
foresee I shall have to buy it from the Lesghis against my will.
Farewell, and may Allah keep you.”

“Can we not on the one hand sell any thing, nor on the other buy any
thing without your turning your back so quickly on us on that account?”
replied the father. “Repose still, the oar has doubtless wearied your
hands.”

“That is why they are so difficult to open,” growled the housewife.

“Since you permit it,” said the merchant, “I will remain here until the
sun has lost a little of its power.”

“I cannot offer you any thing but the shade. I know that the children of
the prophet avoid food beneath the roof of a Christian; but instead of
that you can indulge in a permitted pleasure; as my daughter is still
here, she can sing for you.”

Baïla sang, accompanying herself with an instrument. The man with the
turban, seated on his heels, his arms crossed on his knees, his head
resting on his arms, listened with a profound and immovable attention,
and when she finished, in testimony of his satisfaction, he contented
himself with silently raising one finger more.

Baïla, to the sound of ivory castanets and small silver bells, then
performed an expressive dance, imitating the voluptuous movements of the
bayaderes of India and the Eastern almas, but with more reserve however.

Forced this time to look at her, the man with the turban was unable to
disguise the impression made upon him by so much grace, suppleness and
agility, and, in an irrestrainable outbreak of enthusiasm, he raised two
fingers at once. They were near to a conclusion.

In this mysterious bargaining, this language of the fingers, these mutes
signs were used to enable the parties to swear, if necessary, before the
Russian authorities, by Christ or Mahommed, that there had been no
conversation between them except about honey, furs or beaver skins.

After some more bargaining on both sides, the mother finally received
the ten thousand piastres in her apron, and disappeared immediately, to
conceal it in some hiding-place, careless whether she should see her
daughter again or not.

Whilst she was gone the merchant glanced on the elder sister of Baïla,
who had assisted at the bargaining, whilst she was kneading bread in a
kneading trough.

“And she,” said he; “shall I not carry her off also?”

The elder sister, flattered in her vanity, made him a reverence.

“She is lame,” said the father.

“Oh, oh!” said the other, “let us see—it does not matter.”

They bargained anew, and the Mingrelian, taking advantage of his wife’s
absence, ended by selling his oldest daughter for six English guns, a
large supply of powder and lead, some smoking materials and two tuns of
rack. Whilst he was in the humor, he would cheerfully have sold his
wife, still in fine preservation, if custom, agreeing this time with the
new Russian code, had permitted him to do so.

The two men were touching hands in conclusion of this new bargain when
the mother returned. She uttered at first loud cries, thinking that all
the household cares were henceforth to devolve on herself alone. The
merchant was enabled to quiet her by a present of a necklace of false
stones, and some ornaments of gilded brass.

On the following day the two Mingrelian sisters reached a small port on
the shores of the Black Sea, whence they soon embarked for Trebizond. A
month afterward, the man with the turban being suddenly seized with a
desire to have a wife for himself, after having furnished so many to
others, married the eldest sister, who had won his affections by her
skill in making cake.

Such were the remembrances of her family which were awakened in the mind
of the young odalisk, when retired and alone in her apartment, pouting
and jealous.

She then called up the images of that other portion of her life, in
which love was to play a part. She returned in imagination to Trebizond,
to the house of her purchaser, become her brother-in-law. There, like
the companions of her captivity, surrounded by attention and care, under
a superintendence minute but not severe, she passed a year, during which
she had acquired the Turkish language and skill in the toilette, at the
same time perfecting herself in singing and dancing.

A year having passed, the brother-in-law of Baïla embarked with her and
several of her companions for Constantinople. One fine morning he had
dressed his graceful cargo in white, their hair had been anointed and
perfumed, and after having passed the walls of the old seraglio and
traversed some narrow and crooked streets, merchant and merchandise were
installed in a chamber of the slave bazaar.

European ideas concerning the sales of females in the East are generally
erroneous. Our knowledge on this subject rests essentially on what we
have seen in the theatres and in pictures. But dramatic authors and
painters desirous of obtaining the picturesque above all else, do not
regard exactness very closely.

The latter, in order not to divide their pictures into apartments, have
shown us a great common room, in which all, males and females, all
young, all handsome and half naked, divided into groups, pass under the
inspection of the first comers. The promenaders make the circuit of the
galleries; huge Turks, crushed beneath their turbans, and muffled in
their cashmere robes, their silk caftans and their furs, smoke
tranquilly, seated in the corner as in a coffee-house. Sometimes, in
these fantastic sketches, a slender greyhound, with his sharp muzzle, or
a beautiful spaniel, with a flowing tail, figures as an accessory, as in
the great compositions of Reubens or Vandyke; but in Turkey dogs are
prohibited from entering.

The former, dramatic poets or authors, have boldly established their
markets on the public square, before a crowd of chorus singers, with
pasteboard camels to add to the local coloring. It is true, that, thanks
to the convenience of the scene, the costume of the beautiful slaves for
sale has been increased. The purchasers of women at the opera are forced
to be content with a very superficial examination.

A bazaar of this kind is much less accessible than these gentlemen would
induce us to believe. Divided into private chambers, the women of every
color and all ages, especially those whose youth and beauty command a
high price, are lodged almost alone, under the custody of their sellers.
In order to penetrate the sanctuary one must be a Mussulman, and offer
guarantees, either from his position or his fortune; for the first
curious person who presents himself is not permitted to see and buy.

Baïla and her companions entered, then, into a saloon of the grand
bazaar of Constantinople, to take up their positions in the upper port
of a chamber. Each desirous of reigning over the heart of one of the
grand dignitaries, sought the most favorable position to show off her
attractions to the greatest advantage, and was disposing herself so as
to arm herself with all her natural or acquired graces, when a small old
man, with a meager and mean turban, a caftan without embroidery or furs,
as old-fashioned as its master, entered the room almost furtively. It
was an Armenian renegade, who had made his fortune by superintending the
affairs of an old vizier, whose treasurer or _khashadar_ he was.

Whilst he was in the service of the latter, he had carefully increased
his wealth, and his wife, espoused by him before his apostacy, had never
permitted him to give her a rival. By a double fate, his wife died about
the same time his vizier was sent into exile in disgrace. Become free on
both sides, the Armenian feared no longer to exhibit his gold and his
amorous propensities, both of which he had concealed so well for thirty
years.

Although it was a little late, he determined to recommence his youth, to
live for pleasure, and to organize a harem. Thus, at this moment,
rubbing his hands, his figure inflamed, his small, red eyes glistening
like carbuncles, he glided round the chamber, like a hungry fox around a
poultry-yard.

The beautiful young girls were enraged at the sight. In their dreams of
love, each of them had doubtless seen in her happy possessor, a handsome
young man, with a capacious brow, majestic carriage, and black and
glistening beard; and the ex-treasurer of the vizier did not appear to
have ever possessed any of these fortunate gifts of nature.

Not being desirous of such a customer, instead of sweet smiles and their
premeditated graceful postures, they assumed frowning and cross looks,
when the old man stopped before Baïla, who at once trembled and was
seized with an immoderate desire to cry. She was, however, forced to
rise up, to walk about, and notwithstanding all the want of grace she
could assume, the khashadar found her charming; he approached her,
looked at her feet and hands, and examined her teeth, then taking the
merchant aside, said, “Thy price?”

“Twenty thousand piastres.”

The khashadar made a bound backward; his lips puckered up like those of
a baboon who has bitten a sharp citron; he recommenced walking around
the room, examined all those beautiful fruits of Georgia and Circassia
submitted to his inspection; he then stopped again before Baïla. She
feigning to think that he wished to examine her mouth again, put out her
tongue and made a face at him.

This demonstration did not appear to cool his fire. He reapproached the
merchant, and when they had bargained for some time, seated
cross-legged, the latter rose, saying,

“By the Angel Gabriel, I promised my wife, whose own sister she is, not
to part with her for less than twenty thousand, for the honor of the
family.”

Baïla, who had drawn her veil around her figure, perceived that the
bargain was concluded; and, unable to restrain herself, burst into sobs.
The door of the room was at that moment opened roughly. A man of lofty
stature and imperious look, walked straight up to the desolate girl; he
raised her veil, that veil which, though it concealed her tears, could
not drown her sobs.

“How much for this slave?” he asked.

“She is mine,” said the khashadar.

“How much?” he repeats.

“But I am her purchaser, and not her seller,” said the little old man,
rising on his toes, so as to approximate his length toward that of the
interlocutor.

The latter thrust him aside with a glance of contempt. “I came here,” he
said, “to make a purchase to the amount of nineteen thousand piastres.”

“Twenty thousand is her price,” observed the seller.

“I offer twenty-five thousand for her,” he replied, throwing the veil
over the figure of Baïla.

The merchant bent himself; the khashadar, though pale with rage,
restrained himself, for he had recognized in his rival Ali-ben-Ali,
surnamed _Djezzar_, or the Butcher, the pacha of Shivas.

Thus the young girl having been once sold by her father, was again sold
by her brother-in-law.

Djezzar Pacha, whom a slight difficulty with the divan had called for a
short time to the capital of the empire, took his beautiful slave back
with him to his usual residence, and she at once occupied the first
place in his heart. The joy which she felt at seeing herself elevated
above all her rivals, was not confined to a feeling of pride; she
thought she loved Djezzar.

Although he was no longer in his first youth, and the severity of his
glance sometimes inspired Baïla with a feeling of terror rather than of
love, yet the first look she had cast on him in the bazaar of
Constantinople, the comparison she had then made between him and the old
khashadar, had been so much to his advantage, that she thought him young
and handsome. He had since shown himself to be so generous, so much in
love, had complied with her caprices and fancies with such tender
indulgence, that closing her ears to the stories in circulation about
him, she thought him good and patient.

If, however, she is first in the love of the pacha, she is not alone;
Djezzar does not pique himself on an unalterable fidelity. At this very
time a daughter of Amasia has entered the harem; and the women of Amasia
are regarded as the most beautiful in Turkey. Who knows whether the
scepter of beauty is not about to change hands? May not another inspire
in Djezzar a love still stronger than that he has shown for Baïla?

Such were the ideas that so sadly preoccupied the young Odalisk, when
walking in the garden, she cast by stealth those jealous looks toward
the building with gilded lattices which contained her new rival.

Now her courage is strengthened, her mind lit up by sweeter lights. Did
not the picture of her whole life, which passed before her, show her
that her beauty must be incomparable, since after having dwelt at her
ease in her father’s house, she had been an object of speculation for
her brother-in-law surpassing his extremest hopes? In the bazaar of the
women two purchasers had alone appeared, and they, notwithstanding the
choice offered them, had disputed for her possession. But that which
above all appeared to prove her power, was the boldness of the young
Frank, who at the risk of his life had passed the dreaded entrance of
the palace of Djezzar; who at the sight of her was so overcome as to
lose his presence of mind; who, after having seen her, had again wished
to behold her, and had anew placed himself in her way.

Did he not fear death as the price of his temerity? He did not fear
because he loves—and it is thus the Franks love. Had they not seen the
most celebrated of them, Napoleon, then Sultan, conquer Egypt with an
army, in order to seek there for a beautiful female, whose beauty and
whose country had been revealed to him in a dream sent by God.[1] Is it
not also in a dream that this young Frank has received a revelation of
the charms of Baïla? Perhaps he had seen her during her residence at
Trebizond, or on her voyage to Constantinople? What matters it; she owes
it to him that she now feels confident and reassured. Let Djezzar bestow
his affections for one night on the daughter of Amasia; to-morrow he
will return to the Mingrelian. And Baïla went to sleep thinking of the
young Frank.

Did she feel already for him one of those inexplicable affections that
sometimes spring up in the hearts of recluses? By no means; his scanty
costume and beardless chin did not render him very seductive in her
eyes, and he had not been enabled to charm her by his eloquence. But she
thought she owed him gratitude; besides, she perhaps wished to try to
avenge herself on Djezzar, even during her sleep.

-----

[1] The Arabians, Egyptians, and Turks still believe this.

                              CHAPTER II.

On the following morning, Baïla, followed by Mariam, again traversed the
garden, under the pretext of erasing the tracks of the unknown, should
he have left any. The wind and the night had caused them to disappear
from the walks which were covered with fine sand. Returning, however,
from the neighborhood of the river, she found the recent mark of a boot
impressed on a flower border. The foot-mark was small, straight, and
graceful.

Baïla hesitated to efface it. Why? Was the stranger speaking decidedly
to her heart? No; it was a woman’s caprice, and among women the odalisks
are perhaps the most enigmatical. After having undertaken this
expedition for the very purpose of effacing all traces of the Frank, she
was now tempted to retain the only one that remained.

This print, which the bostangis, with their large sandals with wooden
soles could not have left, and which the foot of the pacha would have
over-lapped with a large margin, and which consequently might reveal the
adventure of the evening, she was desirous of preserving. Why? Perhaps
her imagination, over-excited by her ideas of gratitude, had, at the
sight of this elegant impress, given the lie to her eyes, by clothing
the stranger with a charm, which, in his first movement of alarm she was
unable to recognize. Perhaps, blinded by passion, Baïla was desirous
that Djezzar might see this denunciatory mark, so that his jealousy
might be alarmed, and he might suffer in his pride and his love as she
had done.

The old negress pointed out to her, that in case the unknown should be
rash enough to return again, the pacha, his suspicions once excited,
would certainly have him seized, and thus both might be compromised.

The Mingrelian then yielded; but she was unwilling, from a new caprice,
that Mariam should remove the earth from this place. She contented
herself with placing her own delicate foot upon it several times, and
with trampling with her imprint in that of the stranger, and this double
mark remained for a long time, protected as it was from inspection by
the superabundant foliage of a Pontic Azalea.

This shrub grew in great abundance on the slopes of the Caucasus, and
Baïla, when a child, had seen them flower in her native country. She
conceived an affection for this spot, which spoke to her of her country,
and of her second and mysterious lover. Her country she had left without
regret; this young Frank, this giaour, he had been to her at first but a
surprise, an apparition, a dream, and now, her wounded heart demands an
aliment for this double recollection. During a whole month she took her
walks in this direction; thither she came to dream of her country and
the stranger, especially of the latter.

Did she then at length love him? Who can tell? Who would dare to give
the name of love to those deceitful illuminations produced in the brain
of a young girl, by a fermentation of ideas, like wills-of-the-wisp on
earth; to those phantoms of a moment, with which solitudes are peopled
by those who abandon themselves to a life of contemplation.

In Europe, _the religious_, though living under a very different rule,
refer all the passionate tenderness of their soul to God; each of them
finds, however, some mode of husbanding a part of it for some holy image
of her choice, some concealed relic, which belongs to her alone; she
addresses secret prayers to it, she perfumes it with incense which she
carries away from the high altar; it is her aside worship. In the East,
those other inhabitants of cloisters, the odalisks, have no worship but
love, and in the endearments of that love they can prostrate themselves
but before one alone; but there, as everywhere else, the idol is
concealed in the shadow of the temple; they have their fetishes, their
dreams, their fraudulent loves, their loves of the head, if we may so
designate them. It is perhaps necessary for human nature thus to give
the most decided counterpoise to its thoughts, in order to preserve the
equilibrium of the soul, to protest in a low tone against that which we
loudly adore, to oppose a shadow to a reality.

It is true that where lovers are concerned, the shadow sometimes assumes
a form and the reality evaporates.

Be this as it may, Djezzar had returned to Baïla, and the latter, more
assured than ever of her power, made him expiate his late infidelity by
her caprices and her extravagances. They wondered in the Harem to see
the Pacha of Shivas, before whom every thing trembled, bow before this
handsome slave, so frail, so white, so delicate, whom he might have
broken by a gesture or a word. The rumor of it spread even to the city,
where it was whispered that Djezzar would turn Jew if Baïla wished it.

This Ali-ben-Ali, surnamed Djezzar, or the Butcher, was, however, a
terrible man. Originally a page in the palace of the Sultan, and brought
up by Mahmoud, he had not participated at all in the civilizing
ameliorations the latter had endeavored to introduce into his empire.
The decree of Gulhana had found him the opponent of all reform. Assured
of a protection in the divan, which he knew how to preserve, he
sustained himself as the type of the old pachas, of whom his
predecessors, Ali of Janina and Djezzar of Acre, were the paragons. He
especially redoubled his barbarism when a philosophical breeze from
Europe endeavored to breathe tolerance over his country.

Adjudging to himself the double part of judge and executioner, thanks to
his expeditious justice, decrees emanating from his tribunal were
executed as soon as rendered; sometimes the punishment preceded the
judgment. A thousand examples were cited, tending to prove clearly that
in Turkey, Djezzar was a relique of the old regime. An aga had
prevaricated. The pacha unable to inflict punishment upon the culprit in
person, as the friend of prompt and good justice, had ordered a young
effendi, his secretary, to go at once to the residence of the
prevaricator and deprive him of an eye. The young man hesitating and
excusing himself on the plea of his inexperience, “Come nearer,” said
Djezzar to him; and when the poor effendi approached him, the pacha,
with marvelous dexterity, plunging quickly one of his fingers into the
corner of an eye, drew out the globe from its socket, then with a quick
twist and the assistance of his nail, the operation was performed.

“Slave, thou knowest now how to do it; obey at once,” he said to him;
and the poor victim, with his wound undressed and bleeding, was
constrained, on peril of his life, to inflict on the aga the punishment
he had just undergone.

No one excelled as he did in cutting off a head at a blow of the
yataghan. It is true, no one else had so much practice. There was a
story told at Shivas, of a feat of this kind which did him the highest
credit.

Two Arabian peasants, feulahs, were brought before him, on a charge of
murder, and each of them accusing the other of the crime. Djezzar was
perplexed for a moment. It was possible that one of them was innocent.
Wanting proof of this, and not being in the humor to wait for it, he
thought of an ingenious and prompt means of referring the judgment to
God. By his orders the accused were fastened back to back by their
bodies and shoulders; he draws his sabre—the head which falls is to be
that of the guilty man.

Seeing death so near, the two wretched men struggle to avoid falling
beneath the hand of the executioner; they turn—they shift—each
endeavoring to place his companion on the side where the blow is to
fall. Djezzar regarded this manœuvering for some time with pleasure; at
length, after having pronounced the name of Allah three times, he made
his Damascene blade describe a large circle, and both heads fell off at
a blow.

Notwithstanding his habitual gravity, the pacha could not avoid laughing
at this unexpected result; he laughed immoderately, which he had
probably never before done in his life, and his noisy bursts mingled
with the hoarse roars and panting of a lion, which, confined in a
neighboring apartment, inhaled the odor of the blood.

This lion was his master’s favorite. Custom had for a long time
prescribed to the pachas of Shivas, as to other pachas of the East, that
they should be accompanied by a lion on all solemn occasions. Galib, the
predecessor of Djezzar, and a great partisan of reform, had a monstrous
one which he fed particularly with Janizaries; the story ran, that the
fanatical Djezzar appeased the appetite of his occasionally with
Christian flesh.

And yet this ferocious man, who made a profession of the trade of an
executioner, who laughed only when heads were cut off, who, according to
public rumor, tossed human flesh to his lion, Haïder, felt the power of
love, doubtless not gallant and perfumed love—the love of the boudoir;
but, endowed with an energetic and voluptuous temperament, he passed in
the midst of his harem the time spared from business; and in the East,
whatever may be the complexity of affairs, the administration,
especially under such a mastery, is reduced to such simplicity, that
leisure is never wanting.

Djezzar could say with Orasmanus,

        I will give an hour to the cares of my empire,
        The rest of the day shall be devoted to Zaïre.

Zaïre, that is, Baïla, awaited him on his quitting the Council.
Especially in his summer palace of Kizil-Ermak did he spend the greater
part of the day, extended on cushions at the feet of his beautiful
slave, smoking the roses of Taif or Adrianople, mingled with the tobacco
of Malatia or Latakia, sometimes chewing a leaf of haschich, or a grain
of opium, or even of arsenic to exalt his imagination.

Baïla sometimes smoked the hooka; and as they reclined there together,
plunged into a dreamy state, full of reveries, caused by the juice of
the yucca or the poppy of Aboutig, the one opening for himself in
advance a sojourn among the celestial houris, the other thinking,
perchance, of the audacious stranger, Haïder, the lion, drawing in his
claws, would stretch, himself familiarly beside them.

Baïla would then lean carelessly on her elbow against this terrible
creature, whilst the pacha would listlessly permit his head to recline
on the lap of the odalisk. It was a sight to behold this beautiful young
female, robed in light draperies, reposing thus quietly between these
two ferocious beasts. She feared neither of them; the lion was tamed as
well as the man; both obeyed her voice, her look.

At first, notwithstanding the violent passion of Djezzar, Baïla had
doubts as to the duration of her power, especially when she thought of
the favorite who had preceded her.

This favorite, after a reign of three years, having dared to persist in
soliciting pardon for a bostangi, who was condemned to lose his hand for
having fished fraudulently, during the night, in the fish-ponds of the
pacha, the latter, in a moment of rage, had cut off the nose of his
beautiful Aysche, and then not desiring to keep her in that state, he
had completed the punishment of the trustless bostangi and the
refractory slave by uniting them in marriage. A piece of ground,
situated on the confines of the city, had been given them as a dowry.
Aysche now sold vegetables in the market, where she was known by the
name of _Bournouses_ (the noseless.)

This example of the instability of the power of favorites had ceased to
disturb Baïla, since the Christian had revealed to her the secret of her
power. Besides, at the time of the events Aysche was no longer young,
which might give rise to the thought, that her decreasing beauty, rather
than any other cause, had excited the wrath of her master.

Baïla was seventeen years old, with a Georgian head on a Circassian
body, the voice of a syren, and the tread of a nymph—what had she to
fear? Her will had become that of the pacha. Entirely cemented by habit
to her love, he appeared never to think of his other odalisks, except
when the Mingrelian, from caprice or petulance, revolted openly against
his desires. Then, in the presence of the rebellious beauty, Djezzar
would order a slave to carry to an odalisk, whom he designated, a piece
of goods, which, according to the Oriental custom, announced the
approach of the master, and which in accordance with our method of
translating Turkish manners, we have naturalized among us by the phrase
of “_throwing the handkerchief_.”

Formerly, at the idea of the infidelity which was to be practiced toward
her, Baïla fretted and pouted in a corner with a bereaved air. Her small
mouth drawn down at the corners, muttered unintelligible complaints and
threats; her beautiful black eyes, with their long, vibrating lashes,
were half closed, and with her head bent, and the pupils drawn back to
the angle of the eyelids, she cast upon the slave, the master, and the
brilliant piece of goods, a look full of anger and jealousy. There her
audacity ceased.

But now, when Djezzar, to avenge himself on her, takes a fancy to be
inconstant, she falls upon the stuff and the slave, tears the one and
cuffs the other; and if the omnipotent pacha carries out his plan of
vengeance, it frequently happens on the next day that as the price of
submission, the slave is, on some pretext, bastinadoed, and the favorite
of a day driven away in disgrace, too happy to escape, without, like
Aysche, leaving her nose within the palace, is sent to the bazaar to
become the property of the highest bidder.

Such had lately been the fate of the beautiful daughter of Amasia.

Proud in the empire she exercised over her master, Baïla became
intoxicated in the triumph of her vanity. In the midst of its smoke, the
remembrance of the stranger, the giaour, no longer reached her but at
distant intervals.

She had remained shut up for a whole week without descending into the
gardens, when one day that Djezzar had gone to raise some taxes,
resuming her old promenades, she found herself unconsciously near the
Azalea of Pontus.

What had become of that young Frank? Was he still in the pachalick of
Shivas? Did he still entertain the plan of a second attempt, as Mariam
had thought he would? He had doubtless gone, returned to his country,
that singular country called France, where they say the women rule the
men; she should see him no more. So much the better for both him and
her.

Whilst she was in this train of reflection a roar of Haïder was heard
without; it announced the return of the pacha. The latter had taken him
with him, for the pleasure of letting him loose at some jackall by the
way. She was preparing to return to her apartments to await there the
arrival of Djezzar, when a report of fire-arms, followed by a low noise,
was heard by the side of Red River.

Baïla trembled without being able to explain the cause of her emotion.

“Have you been successful in hunting?” she said to Djezzar, when they
were alone.

“So, so,” he replied; “my falcon struck three pheasants, and I killed a
_dog_.”

Baïla dared not interrogate him as to the doubtful sense which this word
might have in the mouth of so orthodox a Mussulman as Ali-ben-Ali.

That evening, when Mariam came to her mistress, after hesitating as to
the information she was about to give her, and after ten preparatory
exclamations, she informed her of the event of the day.

As the pacha was returning to his palace, and his hunting train was
straggling along by the woods of Kizil-Ermak, near the place where they
entered the second enclosure, Haïder, whom a slave held by a leash,
stopped obstinately before a copse, growling in low tones, which
attracted the attention of Djezzar. The copse having been beaten by the
train, a man sprung out from it, flying rapidly toward the river, across
which he endeavored to swim, but before he could reach the opposite
bank, the pacha, snatching a gun from the hand of one of his delhis, had
drawn on the flyer with such certainty of eye and hand, that, struck in
the head, he had disappeared immediately, carried down by the current.
This man was a Christian, but an Asiatic Christian, as his head-dress of
blue muslin proved. Besides, the pacha said that the roar of Haïder of
itself showed what his religion was.

“Be his country or religion what they may,” said Mariam, finishing her
story, “he is dead, dead without any one being enabled to divine what
motive could have induced him to secrete himself on this side of the
river by the very verge of the palace.”

“At the verge of the gardens,” then interrupted Baïla, who had listened
to the recital of her old negress without interrupting her for a moment,
or even without appearing to be greatly moved by it. “It was into the
gardens that he wished to penetrate, as he had done before.”

Mariam looked at her with surprise.

“Yes,” pursued the Mingrelian, “the man whom they have killed is the
young Frank, who had doubtless changed his dress, so as not to attract
too much attention to himself by his European costume.”

Mariam remained silent.

“Do you not think so also?”

After some inarticulate words the negress said, “Who can tell?”

“Thyself,” replied Baïla, “thou knowest more than thou hast told me.”

“I avow,” added Mariam, after a little hesitation, “that one of the
delhis, who witnessed the affair, said in my presence, that the fugitive
appeared to have a very white complexion for an Asiatic.”

“Thou seest it all well, Mariam,” said Baïla, carelessly, still playing
with the fan she held in her hand.

“If it is so,” replied the negress, “I am sorry for the fate of the poor
young Christian; but we at least are out of the reach of danger in
consequence of it, and I can now sleep, for, since his double apparition
in the garden, I have but half closed my eyes. I feared constantly some
imprudence on your part or his.”

“Faint-hearted;” and Mariam assisted Baïla in arranging her toilet for
the night.

Soon after daylight the Mingrelian left her solitary couch, for Djezzar
fatigued by the chase had also slept alone, woke her old negress, and
both descended into the gardens. Baïla gave as a pretext for her walk,
her desire to breathe the fresh air of the gardens.

She went first to the kiosk, then to the plateau, on which she had
formerly seated herself; she cast a glance around her on the masses of
flowers and shrubs, upon the small marble basin, and fixed for some time
an attentive look upon the two palm-trees, as if some one was about to
appear between their columns, under their green canopy. She went then to
the spot where the Azalea covered with its shade and its flowers the
last trace of the stranger; she broke off one of the branches, stripped
it of its foliage, broke it into two, fastened together the pieces in
the form of a cross, by means of a cord taken from a pelisse which she
wore; she then set up this cross upon the foot-print, which was almost
effaced. All this was done without any affectation of sentiment, and
with a calm and almost listless air.

At the sight of the cross, Mariam, who was born a Christian in
Abyssinia, signed herself, after having first cast a cautious glance
around her. Baïla contented herself with breathing a sigh, the sigh of a
child who sees a game on which it has been for some time engaged,
finished. She then returned to the isolated pavilion, in which her suite
of apartments was situated, with her head bent down and pensive, but
thinking, perhaps, of any thing else than the stranger.

From that moment, however, cross and fantastic with Djezzar, she had no
longer for him those soft caresses, nor those melodious songs, nor those
intoxicating dances which accompanied the clicking noise of her
castinets, and appeared to open the gates of the seventh heaven. She
finished by irritating him so much by her redoubled whims, caprices, and
refusals, that he left her in a fury, and remained for three whole days
without wishing to speak to her. On the third day, the attendants came
to him to inform him that a terrible noise was heard in the apartments
of the favorite, the cries of a woman mingled with the roarings of the
lion.

Djezzar sent thither, but was unwilling to go himself. When they
hastened to the assistance of the Mingrelian, they found her shut up
alone with Haïder. The rich carpet of Khorassan, which adorned the floor
of her chamber, was in places rent to pieces, and all strewed over with
bits of switches of the cherry. These shreds and fragments pointed out
the places where the strife had taken place between the lion and the
odalisk.

After having drawn him into her pavilion, Baïla had shut him off from
all retreat, and careless of the result to herself, armed with a light
bunch of rods, she had struck him redoubled blows, resolutely renewing
every stick which was broken on the body of her terrible antagonist. The
latter, accustomed to obey the voice that scolded him, and the arm that
struck him, without thinking of defending himself, bounded from one side
of the chamber to the other, tearing up a strip of carpet with his
curled talons at each bound; but finally his patience and long endurance
exhausted, irritated by grief, groaning and palpitating, lying half on
his croupe and his back, raising up one of his monstrous paws, he
extended his glittering talons, and became in his turn threatening, when
suddenly the bostangis and footmen of the pacha entered, armed with
boar-spears. The door being opened, the lion fled through it in
disgrace, not before the new comers, but from the Mingrelian, who still
pursued him with her last cherry-stick.

On the evening of the day in which Baïla had excited the royal anger of
the lion against herself, that terrible animal, broken and degraded by
his domestic habits, came, like a well-trained dog, confused and
repentant, to couch at the feet of his mistress, imploring pardon.

On the following day Djezzar did the same. The favorite saw him approach
her, humble, and laden with presents. The contest of Baïla with Haïder,
of which a full account had been given to him, filled him with a
singular admiration for the former. Baïla received the two conquered
with a cold dignity, which might pass for some remains of rigor.

This double victory found her indifferent; she had exhausted all the
emotions she could experience; she had so far distanced her rivals, that
triumph over them no longer excited her vanity; the slaves around her
were so submissive that she no longer took pleasure in commanding them.
The pacha was tamed, tamed even to weakness, to cowardice; every one,
even the lion, submitted to the power of the favorite, and with such
unanimous accord, that in this harem, where every thing prostrates
itself before her, and every thing is done in accordance with her will
or her caprice, she has but a single enemy whom she cannot conquer; it
is ennui. That threatened to increase daily, and to strengthen itself by
the weakness of the others.

The pacha went on the same day to the city; Baïla consented to accompany
him; and after having remained a short time at Shivas, they had scarcely
returned to Kizil-Ermak, when she appeared entirely different from what
she had been at her departure. Gayety and vivacity had returned to her;
the smile to her lips, joy to her eyes; she had refound her sweetest
songs, her most graceful dances. She was charming in the eyes of Djezzar
and even of Haïder. It was said she had been spontaneously metamorphosed
by the way.

The good humor of the favorite communicating itself to the pacha, and
spreading from him far and near, all was joy in the palace that night.

Baïla alone possessed the secret of this general joy.

                              CHAPTER III.

Shut up in her palanquin, in the suite of the master, as she was passing
with the escort through one of suburbs of Shivas, on their return to the
Red River, and was amusing herself with looking at the inhabitants,
Turks and Christians, fly, pell-mell, in disorder, so as to hide or
prostrate themselves at the sight of the pacha, she remarked one, who,
remaining erect and motionless, did not appear to participate in the
emotions of the crowd.

Baïla was at first astonished that the guards, the _cawas_, did not
force him to assume a more humble posture; she examines him with more
attention and starts. He wears the dress of a Frank, and as far as she
can judge through her double veil, and the muslin curtains of the
palanquin, which were spangled with gold, his features are those of the
unknown.

By a movement quicker than thought, veil, curtains, all are at once
thrown aside. It is he—their looks meet. The stranger is troubled. He
is doubtless again overcome by the resplendent lustre of so much beauty;
then, with an expression full of love, he raises his eyes to heaven, and
places one hand upon his heart; he moves quickly in this hand a small
brilliant, gilded object which Baïla could not distinguish, for the
curtains had already fallen.

This imprudent, daring scene, which occurred in the midst of a crowd,
had no witnesses, all were flying or were prostrate on the ground.

During the remainder of the route Baïla believed she had dreamed. What,
this stranger, then, was not dead; he had not been denounced by Haïder,
and slain by Djezzar. Had she then been unjust and cruel toward these?
She owed them a reparation. Perhaps the Frank had been only wounded.
This was very light, then, for it had not prevented him from
encountering her. Why light? Was not he who feared not to brave every
thing to reach her, capable of enduring pain, in order to see her? But
what object had he held before her, with his hand on his heart, and his
eyes turned toward heaven? Doubtless a present which he wished to make
her, which he desired to throw into her palanquin as a souvenir. She had
let her spangled curtains fall too quickly. Or rather, is it not some
jewel of her own, something which had fallen from her dress, and been
found by him at the foot of the plantain, or in the alleys of the
garden? Yes, he preserves it as a precious relic, as his guardian amulet
which he wears above his heart; for it was from thence he drew it—it
was there she saw him replace it in his transport of love.

She then asked, what could this young man be among the Franks, who had
remained erect and standing with so bold a look during the passage of
the pacha, and whom the _cawas_ had, notwithstanding, appeared to
respect? Yes, there were secrets connected with him yet to be
discovered. No matter! Whatever the rank or power of this mysterious
unknown might be, she is to him an object of frenzied love. Could she
doubt it? Her vanity is gratified by it, and in her revery, remembering
Egypt and Napoleon a second time, she came to the conclusion that should
the unknown ever command an army in the country of the Franks, they
might on some fine day invade the pachalick of Shivas.

Until now, in order to rid herself of the narcotic influence of the
monotonous life of the harem, Baïla had had recourse to fantasies of all
kinds, to her thousand and one caprices, her strifes, her poutings, her
revolts, her tyrannies over her master, his lion, and the slaves; now,
however, her character appeared to change; she resumed the indolent and
equal humor of early days with Djezzar; she tormented her good Mariam
and her other serving women less; her taste for dress appeared to be
modified; instead of four toilets a-day, she now only made three; she
became grave; she reflected; she thought; she thought of the giaour; she
reflected on the singular chain of circumstance, which, in despite of
her, had mixed up this young man with all her pre-occupations, and all
the events of her recluse life.

Without recurring to the dangerous practice of a leaf of haschich
bruised in her hookah, or a grain of arsenic dissolved in treacle, her
imagination could now create a new and charming world for her. She
foolishly pursued her vain reveries about the conquest of Shivas. She
saw herself transported to another country—to Paris—where every one
could freely admire her beauty, now the property of one only, where she
could receive the homage of all, conquering a thousand hearts at once,
whilst still reserving her own for the beloved object. Is not that the
greatest joy and happiness known on earth to woman?

But could not this revery be realized without the intervention of any
army? Baïla waited for some time for some realization of her chimera;
then, when she had ceased to think of it, ennui, terrible ennui again
took possession of her. Sickly languor succeeded. She sought a cause for
her suffering, and that cause she found in the walls of the harem, which
oppressed and stifled her.

The Sultan Mahmoud, during the latter part of his life, had permitted
his women to leave the seraglio, well escorted and supervised. The
younger dignitaries of the Sublime Porte, the avowed partisans of the
new order of things, following his example, had in their turn essayed
this usage. Baïla knew it, and she determined to conquer this pleasant
liberty for herself.

At the very mention of it to the pacha, he regarded her with fierce and
flashing eyes, and swore by Mahomet and the four caliphs, it was his
dreaded oath, that if any other of his women had made such a proposal to
him, her head would have already leaped off at a blow from his yatagan.

Baïla desisted, but the refusal increased the intensity of the desire
which she felt. She also swore, not by the four caliphs, but by her
woman’s will, to attain her end, whatever road she must travel, or
whatever peril she must brave. The mere idea of this new struggle in
which she was engaged, cured her of half her languor.

What was this end? She must first examine herself in order to define it.

From the summit of the terraces of the winter palace she had already
seen a part of the monuments of the city; she had visited the citadel,
the caravansery, the mosque in the train of the pacha. It was not,
therefore, for this that she aspired to this phantom of freedom.

The bazaars remained; but had not the pacha caused to be conveyed to the
harem whatever they contained precious and rare in brocades, velvets,
precious stones, and sculptured gold, that she might see and choose from
them? The privation could not then be felt on this account.

Magicians, jugglers, the musicians of Persia and Kurdistan, every pigmy
deformity, every curious object which traversed the pachalick, was, at a
word from her, admitted into the palace. She arrived at this logical
conclusion, that if she desired to visit and traverse Shivas, it was in
the hope of finding there again the unknown, of finding the key of the
mysteries which surrounded her; and this unknown was certainly the only
one of the curiosities of the city, to which Djezzar would refuse
permission to enter his harem for the diversion of the favorite.

But could not another make the discovery for Baïla? She thought at once
of Mariam.

The latter, who was a partial purchaser of provisions for the harem;
freed by her employment, her age, and her color, from the ordinary
ceremonial, she traversed the streets and market-places at pleasure.
Baïla knew her devotion to her person, and should she refuse to serve
her in her researches, she knew that the old negress would not betray
her. She spoke to her then about it.

The Abyssinian seized with a sudden trembling, exclaimed,

“By the Holy Christ! do not repeat those words, my dear mistress; resist
the temptation, stifle it in your heart; it is an inspiration of the
Evil Spirit, or, perhaps, a purpose of Providence, perhaps an
inspiration from on high,” she murmured in a low voice, as if
apostrophizing herself.

“You will have nothing to fear, Mariam; of what crime will you be
guilty, for endeavoring to make some inquiries about this stranger? It
is well known that old women are curious.”

“Young ones are no less so,” she replied, casting a reproachful glance
at her, “and their curiosity draws more perils after it. Our holy
mother, Eve, was young when—”

“Then you refuse to serve me?”

“This time I do; do not exact it, do not insist upon it. I have already
had so much to struggle against on the other side.”

“How?”

“This young Frank. He is born to be your destruction and mine. But no;
if you knew—”

“You know him then? Are you dreaming?”

“Have I spoken of that? By the black angel I hope it is nothing.”

“Thou wert about to betray thyself; hast thou seen him?”

“Ah! my dear mistress do not destroy me,” exclaimed the old slave,
trembling with fright. “Yes, I have seen him to my misfortune.”

“Well, who is he? What keeps him at Shivas? What does he want? What does
he hope for? What are his plans?”

“Is it for me to inform you? In the name of the God of the Christians,
who has been yours and is still mine, cease to question me. If our
master should only discover that this young man has penetrated here into
the gardens, I know that I should be put to death. I should be cut to
pieces and thrown to feed the fish in the ponds.”

“But he shall not know it. Thou hast nothing to fear, I tell thee; am
not I here to protect thee?”

“But thee? Who will protect thee?”

“What matters it? Then you know this stranger? Thou hast met him, and
hast told me nothing of it?”

“Doubtless it has so happened, though he would have preferred meeting
another.”

“And who is that other?”

“Thyself.”

“Me!” exclaimed Baïla, with her face suffused with blushes, as if she
did not expect this reply, which she had skillfully extracted in order
to force Mariam into her confidence. “And what does he want with me?”

“What does he want?” replied the old negress, again a prey to her first
emotion. “What does he want? God keep me from saying?! He alone can tell
you. But it will be death perhaps for us three.”

Baïla was silent for a moment. “He has hoped to see me again?” she then
asked.

“If one may believe him, he would give his life a thousand times to
realize this hope; and moreover—”

“What else does he wish?”

“It is his secret, not mine, I have already said too much.”

They were interrupted; Mariam retired abruptly and Baïla remained alone
with the serpent of curiosity which was gnawing into her heart.

Shortly afterward, during the night, whilst the pacha was at the city of
Tocata, where the cares of government detained him, a man was brought
furtively into the gardens of the Red River. A bostangi had found means
to introduce him in a flower vase. This bostangi, gained by rich
presents, conducted him by then deserted paths to the pavilion of the
favorite.

Baïla was in the bath, when the Abyssinian negress appeared and made her
a signal. The beautiful odalisk, under a pretext of a desire to repose,
then dismissed her serving-women, after they had bound up her hair and
carefully perfumed her person.

Her slaves dismissed, she dressed herself with the assistance of Mariam,
but in such haste that her cashmere girdle, tied negligently, kept her
robe scarcely half closed, and her long veil thrown around her, alone
concealed the richness of her shoulders and bust.

She stopped on her way to the saloon in which the mysterious visiter
awaited her. Her respiration failed, a nervous tremor agitated her
beautiful limbs, and made her skin, still moist with rose-water and the
essence of sandal-wood, to shiver—placing her hand on her heart to
restrain, as it were, its tumultuous beatings, she murmured, “I am
afraid!”

“What do you fear now?” said Mariam, sustaining her by her arms, and
whose courage, like a game of see-saw, appeared to be exalted and
strengthened in proportion as that of her mistress failed. “The pacha is
far off—every thing around us sleeps; this Frank, whom you desired to
see and whom you are about to see, has crossed the portals of the palace
without awakening suspicion. He awaits you; he has not trembled in
coming to you; time is precious, he counts it impatiently, let us join
him.”

“I am afraid,” said Baïla, resisting the impulse which the old slave
wished to give her, and trembling all over, with her body bent, her eyes
half closed, she appeared to drink in with delight the alarm she
experienced; as the sick, saturated with tasteless and sugared
beverages, rejoice in the bitter draughts of abscynthe. It was an
emotion, and every emotion is precious to a recluse of the harem.

She entered finally the saloon in which the unknown awaited her, but not
without casting another glance on the _abandon_ of her toilet. By the
feeble light of two candles placed in a bracket, she saw the stranger
standing in a meditative posture.

At the rustling of her robe, at the light sound of her step, he raised
his head, crossed his hands with a kind of ecstatic transport, and his
eyes, raised to the gilded ceiling, sparkled so brightly, that it
appeared to the Mingrelian as if the light about her was doubled.

When Mariam had disappeared, the better to watch over them, when Baïla
found herself alone with her unknown, with the lover of her day dreams,
casting her veil suddenly aside, she revealed herself to him in all the
glory of her Georgian beauty.

She enjoyed his pleasure, his surprise, for a moment, then seating
herself on a corner of the sofa, motioned him to a seat by her side. But
the stranger remained immovable; his only motion was to cover his eyes
as if the light had suddenly blinded him. After having sweetly gratified
her pride by the stupefying effect produced by her resplendent beauty,
she repeated her gesture.

The Frank, still embarrassed and hesitating, went now toward the sofa,
and bending with downcast eyes almost to the earth before her, took hold
of the end of her long veil and re-covered her entirely, turning away
his head. This movement surprised Baïla strangely; but she said to
herself, “perhaps it is one of the preliminaries of love among the
Franks.”

“Listen to me,” said the young man, then, with a voice full of emotion,
and seating himself beside her; “listen to me with attention; the
present moment may become for you as well as for myself the commencement
of a new era of glory and safety.”

She did not understand him, she drew nearer to him.

“You are born a Christian,” he continued, “Mingrelia is your country.”

Baïla thought for an instant that he had himself come from the ancient
Colchis; that he had seen her family; and in the rapid flight of her
fancy she saw the love of this young man remount not only to a recent
period, but also to that time in which she was still the property of her
father. The recollections of her natal country beaming pleasanter to her
by uniting themselves with the idea of a love from childhood, she came
yet nearer to him and looked at him carefully, hoping to find in his
face features impressed of old upon her memory.

“You are then a friend of my brothers?” she said to him. At this moment
of expansion the Mingrelian placed her hand on that of the stranger. The
latter trembled, rose at once and making the sign of the cross, said
with a voice full of unction and solemnity—

“Yes, I am the friend of your brothers, your brothers the Christians,
now trampled under foot by a cruel despot, but one whom you can soften.
The terrible Daker, the master of a part of Syria and Palestine, after
he took for his minister a Christian, Ibrahim Sabbar, became the
protector of the disciples of Jesus Christ. Do you not exercise over
your master a power greater than Ibrahim did over his? A power that they
say the very lions do not resist. God made use of Esther to touch the
heart of Ahasuerus; he has marked you like her with his seal, to concur
in the deliverance of his people. Faith has revealed it to me. Thanks to
you, Ali-ben-Ali, the Pacha of Shivas, the butcher, the executioner,
shall no longer turn his rage but against the enemies of the church. The
divine light descending from the cross of Calvary shall penetrate the
most hardened hearts—”

“Wretch!” exclaimed Baïla, awakening at last from the stupor into which
this unexpected discourse had thrown her, “what has brought you here?”

“To teach you to mourn over your past life, to assist you in washing
yourself from your sins, to save you, and with you, and by you, our
brethren the Christians of Shivas.”

“Go then, apostle of the demon—retire, insolent,” repeats the beautiful
odalisk, enveloping herself in her veil, the better to conceal herself
from the looks of the profane; “go then, and be accursed.”

“No, you shall not drive me away thus,” replied the young enthusiast;
“you shall hear me. God, who inspired me with the idea of this holy
mission which I am now discharging, is about to change your heart; he
can, he will.”

“Thy God is not mine, impious; depart.”

“Ah! do not blaspheme the God of your fathers; do not deny the holy
belief which even without your knowledge has perhaps remained in your
heart. Was it not you who, in a retired part of your garden, reared the
humblest of crosses, doubtless to go thither to pray in private?”

This word, this remembrance of the branch of the azalea, brought
suddenly to the memory of the young odalisk all the chimeras of her
fantastic loves, all the hopes, all the illusions which were grouped by
her around a single idea; the disgust at finding all her reveries
effaced; the frightful thought of the peril she had sought, had braved,
and which still threatens her at that very moment, and all to arrive at
such a deception—to find an apostle when she expected a lover—so
troubled her mind, that her voice, gradually rising, appeared to reach
beyond the pavilion, and reach the sleeping slaves. To endeavor to calm
her, the stranger, with a suppliant gesture, advanced a step.

“Do not approach me,” she exclaimed, and rising with a groan, she called
Mariam. She was about to leave the room, still uttering imprecations,
when the door was thrown quickly open and the pacha appeared suddenly,
surrounded by soldiers, and carrying a complete arsenal of arms of all
kinds at his girdle.

Whether the wrath of the Mingrelian had reached its height, or whether
the sentiment of self preservation awakened imperiously in her, rendered
her pitiless, she exclaimed—

“Kill him—kill him!” and with her finger designated the unfortunate
Frank to the vengeance of the pacha.

The young man cast a momentary sad and pitying look upon her, which made
her start; he then held out his head, a soldier raised his sabre, but
Djezzar turned the blow aside.

“No,” said he, “he must not die so quickly;” and casting a suspicious
glance by turns upon the two, he murmured in a low voice this
frightfully poetic phrase, “his blood should not leap suddenly like
water from the fountain, but flow gently like that of the spring which
falls drop by drop from the rock.”

In the East, poetry is found every where.

He then said something in the ear of a Mangrebian slave near him, and
the Christian was led away.

                              CHAPTER IV.

Djezzar, left alone with Baïla, gave vent at first to all his jealous
passions; but with him the favorite had nothing to dread but an
explanation, commencing with a blow from his dagger. As soon as she
found him confine himself simply to threats and reproaches, she ceased
to fear for her life. Assuming an attitude of surprise, a look of
disgust, whilst still endeavoring to appear as handsome as possible, she
sought to make use of all her advantages and to employ in her favor with
the Turk that toilette of carelessness prepared coquettishly for the
Christian.

Djezzar, who had on that day returned from Tocata to Shivas, had been
informed in the latter city of the intention of the Frank to penetrate
into the interior of his harem; but he had no proof of the complicity of
his beautiful slave. Baïla perceived it. He who could have given those
proofs was, doubtless, expiring at that very moment. Were there not also
to assist her, her imprecations against the giaour and her movement of
terror and flight, of which the pacha himself was a witness. Thus, the
latter was soon convinced and the tables turned; it was now the master
who, humble and suppliant, lowly implored her pardon.

He was, however, preparing a terrible proof for the influence of the
Mingrelian. Baïla, irritated at having been suspected, was already
raising her voice higher.

“Listen,” said the pacha, imposing silence by a gesture, and appearing
himself to hearken to a certain movement which was manifested without.
She listened, but heard nothing but a low, confused, monotonous and
regular sound, like that of threshing.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing—nothing at all,” he replied.

Both remained thus, for a time, attentive; the noise was repeated, but
did not increase. Djezzar became impatient, and, yielding to the
feeling, struck his hands.

“Have not my orders been executed?” he demanded of the Mangrebian slave
who appeared.

“They have, son of Ali; but in vain have we used on this Christian cords
armed with lead and thongs of the skin of the hippopotamus; in vain have
we moistened and sprinkled his gaping wounds with pimento and lemon
juice; he has not uttered a cry or a groan.”

“What does he, then?” asked the Pasha.

“He prays,” replied the slave.

“Has he revealed nothing!”

“Nothing, son of Ali.”

“If my chastisements cannot loose his tongue, my clemency may,” said
Djezzar, with a sinister smile. “Let him be brought before me, and let
Haïder come also. By Allah, I will myself teach him to speak.”

When the Mangrebian had departed, Djezzar, alone with Baïla, became at
once the man of the harem—the effeminate, the voluptuous pacha; he
caused her to resume her seat on the divan, and he himself stretched at
her feet, smoking his hooka, engaged, apparently alone, in watching the
smoke from his Persian pipe escape on one side in massive clouds to
remount from the other, purifying itself in a crystal flask full of
perfumed water. He awaited, in this indolent posture, the arrival of his
captive.

This captive was named Ferdinand Laperre. Born at Paris, of a good
family of the middle classes, of a character addicted to exaltation and
revery, an orphan from his cradle, he had been unable to give a natural
course to his sensibilities. Notwithstanding his university education,
the religious sentiment had germinated and developed itself in him. In
the want of those tender affections of which he was ignorant, holy and
ardent belief had filled the void in his soul. He held a small
employment in the office of the minister of foreign affairs, when one
day at the close of a sermon, by the Abbé La Ardaire, he determined to
become a priest.

His only remaining relative, an uncle, recently appointed to a consulate
in one of the important cities of Asia Minor, thought it best to take
him with him in the capacity of a cadet. He hoped to divert him from his
pious abstractions, to induce him to renounce his plans, and to lead him
even to doubting, by the sight of those numerous sects of schismatic
Christians who inhabit the east. The uncle was a philosopher.

But faith was more brightly kindled in the heart of the neophyte as he
approached those holy places in which evangelical truths had borne their
first branches and produced their most savory fruits. The summits of
Taurus were for him illuminated by the lightnings of Tabor and Sinai.
More than ever strengthened in his first calling, he wore hair-cloth
beneath his diplomatic dress, and promised himself, should the occasion
offer, to accomplish, in despite of his relative, a novitiate signalized
by apostolic labors.

After having perfected himself in the Turkish and common Arabian
languages, he went to Shivas and its environs, on a visit to the
followers of the different dissenting churches—Armenians, Greeks,
Maronites, Nestorians, Eutycheans and even Latin Catholics, separated
from Rome only by the marriage of their priests. He went among them to
effect conversions; he was more alarmed at their misery than their
ignorance, and, like a true apostle, he returned among them less to
preach to them than to succor them.

He was passing down the Red River one day, on a small skiff, which he
had learned to manage in the eastern style, dreaming of the desert and
of an hermitage in some Thebais, and was creating in the future an
ascetic happiness, tempered with clear water, when the oar broke. His
barque stranding, cast him upon a small spot, a delta, located as an
island, between Kizil-Ermak and a regular ditch. Ferdinand was not a
skillful swimmer, but, notwithstanding the usual sedateness of his
thoughts, he was a good jumper. He measured with his eye the river and
the ditch by turns, and the question being decided in favor of the
latter, he crossed it at a bound. The ditch passed, he perceived a low
wall, which had been hidden from his view by a thick copse of nopals and
wild apricot trees. Had he jumped back, to regain his delta, it would
have been at the risk of his neck, for he had now no room to take a
start; and should he succeed, he would still have an impassable river
before him.

Whilst in this position, very much embarrassed what to do, and not
doubting that he was in the neighborhood of the summer gardens of the
pacha, he perceived a low door in the wall; he tried it, and to his
great joy it opened.

There are about Shivas, and especially on the banks of the river,
enclosures in which the cultivators, chiefly Christians, from the great
abundance of water, raise vegetables for the market, and enormous
citrons, savory water-melons, dates, and pistachios which rival those of
Aleppo and Damascus. Ferdinand thought he had reached one of those
Christian enclosures; the carelessness evinced in closing the gate
strengthened the idea. He entered. Then, for the first time, he found
himself face to face with Baïla, who was seated carelessly beneath the
plantain tree. More surprised than charmed at the sight of the graceful
odalisk, bedaubed with red and black, he could only stammer forth a few
words, expressive of his eager desire to escape, safe and sound, from
this perilous adventure, which he had not sought. Entrapped in the
windings of the garden, he had again found himself in the presence of
Baïla and the negress. Regaining at last, with difficulty, the little
gate, which was still open, he was again alarmed at the double obstacle
of the ditch and the river, when, in the midst of the shades of the
evening, he saw a man advance, mysteriously, toward the delta,
traversing the Kizil-Ermak by a ford, of which Ferdinand was quite
ignorant.

This man, one of the bostangis of the pacha, stole his master’s fruit to
sell in the city. It was he who had left open the little gate, which was
only used when the ditch was repairing. After having, on that day,
pointed out to Ferdinand a mode of escaping from his embarrassment, it
was he afterward, who, held by Baïla between the fear of denunciation
and the hopes of reward, had introduced the Frank into the gardens, and
even into the pavilion of the favorite.

Having reached the delta, the bostangi drew from beneath a mass of
overhanging rock, a long plank, which he used to cross the ditch; he
then deposited it beneath the mass of nopals and wild apricots, in which
Ferdinand was concealed.

He saw a miracle from heaven in this concourse of unhoped for
circumstances, co-operating in his deliverance. This plank became an ark
of safety for him; he used it in his turn, and, thanks to the ford which
the bostangi had revealed to him, after having wandered for some time in
its unknown paths, after having struggled anew with the Kizil-Ermak,
which, like a serpent in pursuit of its prey, he found everywhere on his
path, and which appeared to wish to envelop him in its twistings and
windings, he escaped finally all the dangers of his eventful walk.

Having returned to the consulate in Shivas he had double cause to
congratulate himself on having arrived there safe and sound, when he
learned that the gardens into which he had so foolishly adventured were
none other than those of Djezzar.

But this woman whom he had seen—who could she be? When he thought of
his meeting with her, he thought he had dreamed or had seen a vision.

She reappeared before him in a multitude of forms; he saw her resembling
a Bacchante, her cup in her hand, reclining indolently on a tiger’s
skin; then, like a Peri or an Undine, when appearing to him through the
gilded reflection of the sun and the rainbows of the small marble basin;
and, finally, in her third transformation, erect, severe, irritated,
ordering him to fly and threatening him with a dagger.

His calm and chaste imagination lent, however, no charm to this
triplicity of forms. He asked himself, on the contrary, if this vision
did not present to him an emblem of all the vices united—intoxication,
licentiousness, idleness, anger? He found means to complete the seven
cardinal sins. In those accursed gardens, which were inhabited by the
persecutor of the Christians, was it not the demon himself that had
appeared to him?

Thus, whilst Baïla was making of him a being apart—a marvelous
being—whose traces she was honoring, an idol to which she was rendering
the homage of love, he was piously entertaining a holy horror of her
remembrance.

This demon, however—this frightful assemblage of the seven cardinal
sins, was essaying every means to approach him.

Ferdinand, whilst sojourning with his uncle in this province of
Anti-Taurus, was but little concerned about what was taking place in the
harem of Djezzar. His thoughts were elsewhere. But after his involuntary
visit to the gardens, he lent a more attentive ear to what was said
about the pacha. He learned that the latter, abandoned entirely to
voluptuousness, submitted to the control of a favorite Mingrelian. Soon,
without knowing his own share in increasing the sway of the beautiful
slave, he heard it repeated every where around him that, did she will it
firmly, Baïla could make a Jew of her master, Ali-ben-Ali.

“Why not a Christian?” he said to himself.

All his thoughts were, from that day, concentrated on this single
one—“She is a Christian, and can do any thing with Djezzar.”

Oh, how did his divine mission aggrandize in his eyes that toy, which
was a small golden cross, which his mother had worn and which never left
him.

We know the result of the execution of this holy and bold enterprise,
the first terrible consequences of which Ferdinand was now undergoing,
and the conclusion of which he foresaw, when, after his preparatory
punishment, he was led before the pacha, with his hands bound tightly
behind his back. The latter was still extended upon his cushion; his
head and the arm which held his pipe reposed on the knees of the
Mingrelian and his lion Haïder, crouched upon his paws, with his muzzle
to the floor and his eyes half closed, was by his side.

The slaves retired at a gesture from their master; the scene which was
to follow needed no witnesses. The pacha, the Mingrelian, the Christian
and the lion alone remained.

                               CHAPTER V.

Baïla felt her confidence vanish; a single revelation from the prisoner
would be a decree of death to her, and concealing her paleness beneath
the redoubled folds of her veil, she awaited the examination with a
palpitating heart, fixing her curious gaze upon the prisoner.

“Why did I risk my life to listen to a sermon from this mournful
preacher?” she said to herself. “Why did they not kill him when I
commanded? Why did he not fall beneath the blow of the guard?”

Seeing him, however, with his body furrowed by bluish stripes, his flesh
swollen and bloody, standing in that saloon as if he had never left it
to be handed over to executioners, as he did before the arrival of the
pacha, with the same air, the same timid look, which he dared not raise
toward her, she felt an emotion of pity.

“Christian,” said the pacha, “what motive brought thee hither?”

“Her salvation,” replied the captive, turning his eyes for a moment to
the sofa on which the odalisk was seated, and then letting them fall on
Djezzar, he added, “and thine, perhaps.”

“What, dog, and son of a dog, as thou art, didst thou think to make a
vile Nazarene of me, and to convert me to the sect of the accursed, by
taking advantage of my absence?”

“I have said the truth,” replied the young man, “as true as that Jesus
Christ is the redeemer of the world.”

“Thou liest,” replied the pacha, “as true that there is no God but God,
and that Mahomet is his prophet.”

After this outbreak he appeared to endeavor to restrain his anger. He
replaced himself more at his ease upon the knees of his favorite, passed
his hand, as a motion of caress, through the mane of his lion, and when
he had taken two or three whiffs of his batakie, resumed.

“See that thou art sincere, and do not aggravate thy crime. Thou knowest
well that a Mussulman cannot become a Christian, as a Christian cannot
become a Jew. The law of Moses paved the way for that of Jesus; that of
Jesus was but the precursor to that of Mahomet. On this ladder men never
descend—they mount upward.”

“I had hoped, at least,” said the captive, “to render thee more
favorable to my brethren.”

“Are, then, all those bands of rascals who gnaw each other—all those
races of infidels, who are forgetful of their own law, thy brethren? Of
what do they complain? Of some I have made good Christians by martyrdom;
of others, good Musselmen by persuasion. Besides, art thou one of their
priests? No, far from that. Thou art but one of those frivolous
Europeans, who seek to propagate their impious usages among us. Lay
aside trick and falsehood. Thou hast heard of the beauty of this slave,
(turning his head toward Baïla,) and thou hast desired to satiate thy
eyes at the price of thy life. Is it not so?”

The young man made a sign of negation; the pacha heeded it not, and
proceeded.

“Well, art thou satisfied? Thou shouldst be, for thou hast seen her. Are
your women of Europe so to be disdained, that you must come among us to
carry off ours? Until now you have coveted our horses only. How didst
thou find means to correspond with her? Who was thy guide? How did she
first see thee?”

Like a tiger, which with eye and ear watches for the least cry, the
least motion of the prey it is about to seize, Djezzar watched for a
word of avowal—a denunciatory sign on the part of him whom he
interrogated. He obtained none from him, but he felt the knees of Baïla
tremble.

“Christian,” he resumed, “I repeat to thee, be sincere. Tell me what
hope thou hast conceived; tell me who introduced thee into this place;
name thy accomplice, and whatever may be thy fault I will place in the
other scale thy youth and thy consular title, although thy presence in
the midst of my harem at night gives me a right to forget it. But I will
consider what thou hast already endured, and, like Allah, I will be
merciful. Speak; I listen.”

He inhaled again the odorous smoke of his pipe, and appeared to await a
reply; but the captive remained silent and motionless.

“Speak, Christian, speak! There is yet time. At this price alone canst
thou purchase thy life—by abjuring thy idolatry, of course.”

At this last sentence the young man raised his head—a noble blush
mounted to his face.

“To denounce and apostatize,” said he; “is such thy clemency, pacha?
Have thy executioners forgotten to tell thee who I am? Art thou, who
hast thyself honored me with the title of Christian, ignorant of the
duties which this title enjoins? Dost thou think that the disciples of
Christ care so much for this mortal life, as to plunge their souls twice
into ineffaceable pollution?” and his eye sparkled, and his whole
countenance assumed an expression of sublime beauty.

“It is said,” said Djezzar, forming, from his apparent imperturbability,
a fine contrast with the exaltation of the young Frank. “Thou wishest to
die, and thou shalt die. But dost thou know for what an end I reserve
thee?”

“Be it what it may, I am ready,” replied the captive.

“Then thou regrettest nothing of this mortal life?” and the pacha
followed his look attentively, which he thought he would fix on Baïla.

“Nothing,” said the young man, with his eyes cast down, “but the not
being assisted at my last moments by a priest of my religion.”

Djezzar appeared to reflect; a slight smile then contracted his lips.

“If thy wishes go no farther,” he said, “they shall be gratified.”

The Mangrebian reappeared at his call. A few moments afterward an old
man, with a bald head, a long white beard, and a severe countenance,
entered. He trembled violently at the sight of the pacha, as if he
thought his last hour was come.

He was a poor Maronite monk, sent recently by the patriarch of Mount
Libanus to replace the superior of the convent of Perkinik, who was
dead. The pacha had, whilst passing on that day through this Catholic
village, in the environs of Shivas, wished to make an exaction on this
miserable convent, in which a few monks, covered with rags, lived by the
labor of their hands, in the midst of a population as miserable as
themselves. Djezzar, unable to extort the money which they had not, had
carried off their superior with him, to detain him as a hostage until
the sum demanded was paid.

“_Kaffer_,” he said to him, “thou hast refused to pay the taxes of
_Miri_ and _Karadj_.”

“The Christians of Libanus are exempt from them since the capitulation
of the holy King Louis,” replied the unfortunate man, whose voice
betrayed a violent emotion. “The Vice Roy Mehemet Ali regarded us as
exempt.”

“To hell with the old rascal!”

“But the sultans themselves have recognized this law, your highness.”

“There is no law here but my will,” replied the pacha.

“What can I do to disarm thy severity,” blubbered out the old man,
fixing his terrified look upon the lion crouched beside Djezzar, and of
which he already considered himself the prey. “I have nothing in the
world which thou canst take from me, but my life.”

“Which I will do if thou dost not obey me at once.”

“But, to acquit this impost—”

“By the koran, who is now speaking to thee of imposts? Of _Karadj_ and
_Miri_ I hold thee acquitted, thou and thine, forever, and thou art
free, and shalt leave here carrying with thee more piastres than I
demanded of thee; but before we separate thou must call down the curses
of thy God on that dog there.” Then, turning to his other captive, he
continued: “Yes, thou art about to die, and die accursed by a priest of
thy religion. Inch Allah, wilt thou speak now?”

With an heroic resignation Ferdinand, as his only reply, kneels and bows
his head, devoted at once to the sabre and anathema, when he hears the
old Cenobite of Libanus, raising his trembling hands above his head, say
to him, in a soft voice,

“If thou art a Christian, I bless thee, my son.”

These holy words were scarcely pronounced when the old man fell, shot
dead. Baïla fell backward with a movement of horror, and the pacha, with
unbounded impassibility, replaced his pistol in his belt. He interrupted
this movement suddenly to restrain his lion by the mane, which, animated
by the sight of blood, was about to spring with a roar on the body of
the Maronite.

“Carry off that corpse,” said Djezzar to the Mangrebian, “and leave us.”

The dead body carried off, the Mangrebian gone, turning to the lion,
which, with open mouth and thirsty and trembling lips, was uttering low
growls and darting his brilliant glance toward the prey which was
carried from him, Djezzar, restraining him by voice and gesture, said:

“Be patient, Haïder; thy part shalt soon come—thou shalt not lose by
the exchange.”

He then resumed his first position, and whilst the lion, restrained by
him, continued its low roaring, with its eyes fixed on a large spot of
blood on the carpet, and addressing Baïla, without appearing to notice
the emotions of terror by which she was agitated, said:

“Yes, the giaour is for us three—for each a part. For me, his head; for
the lion, his body; and for thee, my beautiful rose of Incour—my
faithful, for thee, his heart. Has he not given thee that heart? Well,
go take it.”

Baïla, undecided, troubled with horror, knew not what meaning to attach
to his words.

“Go, take it,” repeated Djezzar. “look, behold! powerless to defend
himself, does he not appear himself to offer it to thee? Go, my soul,
and if thy dagger is not enough for the work, use mine.”

The odalisk bent toward him—“Thou art sporting with me, Ali—is it not
so?” she murmured in his ear.

“Dost thou not hear me, or art thou unwilling to understand me?” he
replied, in a formidable tone. “This man dies—dies at once, by thy
hand, or I shall believe thee to be his accomplice, and thy head shall
fall before his. I swear it, by Mahomet and the four caliphs.”

Baïla, having to choose between inflicting or receiving death, felt an
icy coldness in her veins; her forehead became lividly pale.

“Thou hesitatest!” said the pacha.

She carried a trembling hand to her dagger.

“Take mine,” he said.

The hand of Baïla fell on the shoulder of Djezzar, and remained there as
if paralyzed; her troubled eyes were raised furtively toward the young
Frank, even on that very evening the object of her reveries of love;
toward that young martyr, who by a word could destroy her, and who was
about to die—to die for her, for being unwilling to pronounce that
word.

“Wilt thou obey?” said the executioner, with a gesture of impatient
rage.

The hand of Baïla descended from the shoulder of Djezzar and played
inquisitively among the arms which formed an arsenal at his belt.

“Thou tremblest—thou art unwilling to do it? Thou lovest him then!” he
exclaimed at last.

“Yes, I love him,” replied the Mingrelian, and bounding suddenly forward
she sheathed the blade of the yataghan full in the breast of the pacha.
Though mortally wounded he still made an effort to seize his other
pistol, but, at a gesture from Baïla, the lion Haïder, excited anew by
the sight of the flowing blood, springing on his master did his part.

Whilst Ferdinand, alarmed at what was passing, was closing his eyes,
stretching out in terror his bound arms, the Mingrelian, endowed with
wonderful presence of mind, gathered quickly into one corner of the
saloon the light furniture and stuffs which were in it; she set them on
fire, and seizing the young Frank, who was more dead than alive, by his
bonds, led him toward a secret outlet, which conducted them to the
sleeping chamber of the Abyssinian negress.

The palace of Kizil-Ermak, which was of Turkish construction—that is,
built of wood—was almost entirely consumed.

On the next day the news mongers of Shivas endeavored to define the
causes of this great event. Some said that the pacha had been strangled
by his lion, and that, in the struggle between these two fierce beasts a
torch was upset, which was the cause of the fire. Others, reasoning from
the usage of the ancient Ottoman regime, and claiming to be better
informed, said that a man, wearing the dress of a Frank, after having
sojourned in the city long enough to avert suspicion as to the object of
his secret mission, had introduced himself into the presence of the
pacha in the very interior of his harem; when the latter had ordered his
slaves to behead him, the pretended Frank, who was no other than the
_capidgé-bechi_ of the sultan, had shown his _katcherif_, and that the
head of Djezzar had alone fallen. The fire had broken out in the midst
of the disorder, and the _capidgé-bechi_, taking advantage of the great
crowd attracted thereby, had escaped, in a new disguise.

Twenty other versions were in circulation, almost all of which were
repeated by the journals of Europe.

Whilst in Shivas, Rocata, and other cities of the pachalick, they were
thus indulging in explanations more or less truthful, Baïla and
Ferdinand, who had been enabled to escape in disguise from the palace,
thanks to the confusion and the crowd, concealed themselves at first in
the mountains to the south of Shivas, where some Kurdish brigands took
them under their protection, exacting a very moderate ransom; they then
found an asylum in a convent, then twenty others in the caverns or
depths of the woods of Avanes, always, however, continuing their path
steadily up the Red River. Having finally entered the dominions of the
Shah of Persia, they returned to France in the train of the last
embassy.

In these wanderings Ferdinand lost some of his ardor for proselytising.
He had traveled across mountains and valleys by day and by night,
carrying temptation with him; Baïla had really become to him the demon
which he had fancied her.

With the beautiful Mingrelian, his liberator, and the companion of his
flight, walking at the same pace, in the same pathway, sleeping under
the same shelter, cared for and watched over by her, it had been
difficult for him to prevent his heart from beating under other
inspirations than those of divine love. Ferdinand was twenty-five years
old, and gratitude has great sway over a generous soul.

Still in the first days of their common flight he had converted his
schismatic companion, who, from her indifference to matters of religion,
was easy to persuade; but it was said that in her turn she had soon
converted him. What is positively known about it is, that the young man
did not return to France alone, but that when his passport was exhibited
at Marseilles, it provided for M. Ferdinand Laperre, consular cadet,
traveling _with his sister_.

My friend, the illustrious traveler, had already furnished me with all
the details of the history I have recounted; but my curiosity was not
yet fully satisfied. I wished to know the fate of the lovers after their
arrival in France. I pressed him with questions on this point, and at
first uselessly. We were breakfasting in the open air, on the lawn at
the Butard, and my botanist, in an exultation difficult to describe, was
fully occupied with a godsend he had found beneath the table we had
used. It was a small plant with shaggy and lanceolate leaves, with
flowers of pale yellow, marked with a violet spot at the base of their
five petals.

“_Cistus guttatus! Helianthemum guttatum!_” he exclaimed, with cries and
gestures impossible to describe to any one who has not the heart of a
botanist. “I thought it only existed in the mountains of Anti-Taurus,
from whence I brought away so carefully an unique specimen. It was my
finest vegetable conquest, and lo I find it here at the Butard at
Luciennes, a suburb of Paris, beneath the table of a tavern. How can
this be? Taurus and the Butard rivals in their productions? I am
nonplussed! Do you believe in Asia Minor?”

“But of Asia Minor?” said I, interrupting him with tenacity, with
obstinacy; “you have related to me a story, the parties to which
interest me strongly—I beseech you tell me more of them!”

“They are perfectly well, I thank you,” he replied.

“I do not inquire after their health, but their fate.”

“Ah! what has become of them? Yes, I comprehend;” then looking at me
with an air of mockery, and laughing loudly, he continued, “as they
have, like us, a habit of chatting much when eating, they breakfast near
by.”

“How! What!” I exclaimed, “those people at the fountain of the priest?”

“Truly. You now discover that you are no diviner. The alledged
confectioner, the lemonade seller, is no other than my friend, Ferdinand
Laperre, our Christian martyr; and his companion, by you so lightly
qualified as a chambermaid, or a countess without prejudices, is Baïla,
the ex-favorite of Djezzar, the pacha of Shivas; Baïla, the Mingrelian,
the rose of Incour, the dove in the talons of the hawk.”

After having inflicted this mockery upon me, which was doubtless well
merited, my friend determined finally to finish the story.

“Having arrived in Paris, events of a more vulgar nature than those
which had signalized their sojourn in Shivas, proved the young Frenchman
and the Mingrelian. Their money gave out. The ornaments, presents from
Djezzar, which the odalisk had carried off in her flight, were, most of
them, false. Pachas even are no longer to be trusted. Ferdinand must,
above every thing, seek for a lucrative employment. He entered the royal
printing office as a proof-reader of Oriental works. This resource being
insufficient for the wants of the household, Baïla sought also to be
useful. Having never handled a needle, she could not become a seamstress
or an embroideress, or a dressing-maid, or a female companion. She has a
charming voice, and might, at a pinch, challenge all the Italian,
French, and other singers, in warbling and trilling; but understanding
none of the European languages, she could only sing Arabian _mouals_ or
Turkish _gazels_. Fortunately she dances also; and dancing is a language
spoken and understood in all countries. She now figures in the ballet
corps of the opera, where she is remarkable for her lightness, her
mildness, and her modesty.”

As my illustrious friend finished his recital, we saw Ferdinand Laperre
and his handsome companion walking arm-in-arm toward the Butard. Now,
better informed, I admired the rare beauty of the Mingrelian, and the
wonderful and graceful suppleness of her figure. My eyes were directed
curiously toward the lower extremities of the ex-consular cadet, to
examine the form and dimensions of his feet, so as to verify one of the
details of this history. I found them much as usual. He had doubtless
confided to Baïla the connection of friendship existing between him and
my companion, for when we again met, she made him a slight wave of the
hand, saying, “_Bojour mocha_.”

“_Salem-Alai-k_,” replied my illustrious traveler.

I saluted her profoundly.

                       A NIGHT AT THE BLACK SIGN.

                        BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

                Ye, who follow to the measure
                  Where the trump of Fortune leads,
                And at inns a-glow with pleasure
                  Rein your golden-harnessed steeds,
                In your hours of lordly leisure
                  Have ye heard a voice of wo
                On the starless wind of midnight
                          Come and go?

                Pilgrim brothers, whose existence
                  Rides the higher roads of Time,
                Hark, how from the troubled distance,
                  Voices made by wo sublime,
                In their sorrow, claim assistance,
                  Though it come from friend or foe—
                Shall they ask and find no answer?
                          Rise and go.

                One there was, who in his sadness
                  Laid his staff and mantle down,
                Where the demons laughed to madness
                  What the night-winds could not drown—
                Never came a voice of gladness
                  Though the cups should foam and flow,
                And the pilgrim thus proclaiming
                          Rose to go.

                “All the night I hear the speaking
                  Of low voices round my bed,
                And the dreary floor a-creaking
                  Under feet of stealthy tread:—
                Like a very demon shrieking
                  Swings the black sign to and fro,
                Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper,
                          For I go.

                “On the hearth the brands are lying
                  In a black, unseemly show;
                Through the roof the winds are sighing
                  And they will not cease to blow;
                Through the house sad hearts replying
                  Send their answer deep and low—
                Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper,
                          For I go.

                “Tell me not of fires relighted
                  And of chambers glowing warm,
                Or of travelers benighted,
                  Overtaken by the storm.
                Urge me not; your hand is blighted
                  As your heart is—even so!
                Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper—
                          For I go.

                “Tell me not of goblets teeming
                  With the antidote of pain,
                For its taste and pleasant seeming
                  Only hide the deadly bane;
                Hear your sleepers tortured dreaming,
                  How they curse thee in their wo!
                Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper,
                          For I go.

                “I will leave your dreary tavern
                  Ere I drink its mandragore:
                Like a black and hated cavern
                  There are reptiles on the floor;
                They have overrun your tavern,
                  They are at your wine below!
                Come, arise, thou fearful keeper,
                          For I go.

                “There’s an hostler in your stable
                  Tends a steed no man may own,
                And against your windy gable
                  How the night-birds scream and moan!
                Even the bread upon your table
                  Is the ashy food of wo;
                Come, arise, thou fearful keeper,
                          For I go.

                “Here I will not seek for slumber,
                  And I will not taste your wine:
                All your house the fiends encumber,
                  And they are no mates of mine;
                Nevermore I join your number
                  Though the tempests rain or snow—
                Here’s my staff and here’s my mantle,
                          And I go.”

                Suffering brothers—doubly brothers—
                  (Pain hath made us more akin)
                Trust not to the strength of others,
                  Trust the arm of strength within;
                One good hour of courage smothers
                  All the ills an age can know;
                Take your staff and take your mantle,
                          Rise and go.

                                SONNETS:

       SUGGESTED BY PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS.

                       BY MISS A. D. WOODBRIDGE.

             I.—THE ERA OF DISCOVERY.

         The darkest storm-cloud oft upon its breast
           Weareth the bow of promise. In the hour
           Of deepest anguish, words of healing power
         Are whispered to the spirit—“Peace!” and “Rest!”
         Praise to our God! if e’en Death’s shadow lower,
           Hope lightens all the gloom, with radiant crest—
           Oh! Joy is, oft, in garb of sorrow drest,
         And direst grief brings rapture as its dower.
           Thus, on the night of ages, flashed a light
         Of wondrous power and splendor, Learning came
           Forth from the cloisters. Welcome to the sight,
         A breath from Heaven relit religion’s flame.
         ’Twas then, his sail the great Discover furled,
         ’Twas then, was born, as ’twere, this western world.

             II.—THE EARLY LIFE OF COLUMBUS.

         Amid a glorious city, woke to light
           He who threw back a double radiance pure;
         And that blue sea! ’Twas as an angel bright,
           Beck’ning the child to fame and fortune sure.
         How lovingly its waters kissed his feet!
           How graceful yielded, as to lure away
         The young enthusiast! Should he fail to meet
           The ceaseless chime, forbidding him to stay.
         The _man_, the _hour_ were found, and from that time
         His soul was girded for its task sublime:
           To struggle on, through error’s endless maze;
         To bear contempt, and poverty, and pain;
           To wait for royal favor’s fickle rays;—
         To find a world beyond the western main!

             III.—COLUMBUS AT THE UNIVERSITY OF PAVIA.

         Here was the manna for his hungry soul;
           And here the fount for which he’d thirsted long.
         Though yet his years were few, none might control
           His mighty yearnings, or his purpose strong.
         Ah! it is joy to watch the spark divine,
           To feel it struck, as thought encounters thought!
         What deep, exulting happiness was thine,
           When to thine aid long-hidden lore was brought,
         And thou, Columbus! didst believe the skies
           Stooped down to nerve thee for thy high emprise!
         ’Twas well thou hadst the witness in thine heart,
           Or thou hadst fainted in thy weary way;
         Though hope “deferred,” though anguish were thy part,
           Faith shed a halo round thee day by day.

             IV.—COLUMBUS ARRIVES IN SPAIN.

         What veiléd glory, and what strange disguise,
           We meet in by-ways of this wondrous earth!
         How oft the “angel” to our scaléd eyes
           Seems but a “stranger” guest of mortal birth!
         Met with cold words, or, haply, careless mirth,
           Known only when he’s passed into the skies.
           Columbus asks for bread![2] None see the ties
         Which link him to the future home and hearth
           Of unborn millions. Thus, the glorious day
         Oft dawns in clouds, while the cold, ceaseless rain
         Fills up each pause in the wind’s moaning strain,
           And forms of evil seem to haunt our way.
         The sky seems brightest when the clouds depart!
         Earth-woes make heaven still dearer to the heart.

-----

[2] On his first arrival in Spain, Columbus asked for bread and water
for his child, at the convent of La Rabida.

               V.—COLUMBUS BEFORE THE COUNCIL.[3]

           A silver lining to on ebon cloud;[4]
             A diamond flashing in Cimmerian cave;
             A Lazarus, up-rising from the grave,
           Bursting the cerements of the straitened shroud;
           To all true men Columbus calls aloud.
             He scans the past, with all its priestly lore,
             But, Janus-like, beholds the future’s shore.
           What glorious scenes, what teeming wonders crowd!
             What though the church behold him with a frown!
             What though the crosier point toward the rack,
             When heresy is near, as to the track
           Of precious gold the magic hazel leans?
             He heedeth not the mitre, cowl, or gown;
           A new creation on his spirit beams.

-----

[3] Irving speaks of the ignorance of this body on all _scientific_
subjects, causing the opinions of Columbus to be regarded as heretical.

[4]

        Was I deceived, or did an ebon cloud
        Turn forth its silver lining on the night?      MILTON.

            VI.—COLUMBUS AT COURT.

        The crescent wanes within Granada’s walls;
          The Moorish standard bows into the dust;
          The hour hath come when proud Boabdil must
        Yield to Castilian prowess. In the halls
          Of the Alhambra hymns of praise and trust
        Ascend to Heaven. On the glad ear there falls
        A mighty shout of triumph. Each one calls
          “Rejoice! the Cross hath conquered—ever just!”
        Who cometh ’mid the throng? One who hath learned
          To hope, when hope hath died within the breast;
        Fainting, to hold right on, though scoffed and spurned—
          Amid that jubilation he is blest.
        Man’s eyes are holden, but proud Woman’s name
        From that good hour shares the Discoverer’s fame.

            VII.—THE EMBARKATION.

        Oh! sweet as is the voice of one most dear,
          And balmy as the welcome breath of heaven
        To the sick soul, long “cabined, cribbed, confined,”
        Is the blesséd wind, that on his high career
          Now wafts the man to whose high trust is given
        A world unknown, save to his mighty mind.
          The last deep prayer is said—the mystic rite
        Hath brought new strength unto his awe-struck heart,
          He who long struggled with the diver’s might,
        Who oft the waves of error did dispart,
          And gasped for breath amid those shades of night,
        Now with the aim unerring of a dart
        Strikes for the pearl, bright gleaming to his eyes—
        What mortal man e’er brought up such a prize!

            VIII.—THE DISCOVERY.

        The morning dawns, and to th’ enraptured eye
          Appears a land, glorious beyond compare,
          Save that the dreamer saw in vision fair,
        When to the Holy City he drew nigh.
        The long-drawn veil e’en now is rent in twain!
          Well may he enter in, with grateful prayer,
          And bathe, as ’twere in a diviner air.
        Well may the tears flow down—a blesséd rain!
          And Spain’s broad banner proudly rise on high.
          What scenes unknown—what beings from the sky,
          May wait his coming, or his glory share,
        And sing his praise in a celestial strain?
        Methinks his soul might now depart in peace!
        Well had it been had he then found release!

            IX.—THE RETURN TO SPAIN.

        Joy! for the Victor cometh! He hath won
          A prouder triumph than the great of eld;
          The tempest-tossed, within whose bosom swelled
        Bright hopes, that changed to fears, now sees the sun
          Shine on the fair and fertile land of Spain,
          Which hails his name with proud enraptured strain.
        All press to gaze on th’ anointed one,
          Whom the Most High within his hand has held—
          While peals again the long and loud refrain;
        And for “Castile and Leon’s” chosen son,
          A full-orbed glory shineth in the West.
        Oh! if Life’s sands e’en then had ceased to run,
        Bright visions of those “islands of the blest”
        Had soothed him to his last and dreamless rest.

            X.—COLUMBUS IN CHAINS.

        In chains! in chains! homeward once more he came!
          Life’s sky is veiled in midnight drear and dark;—
          And this is his reward! They leave no mark
        Those shameless fetters on his own fair fame.
        The shaft may pierce his soul, but yet no shame
          Bows that proud head; he is the victor still;
          He triumphs in a stern, unconquered will.
        His ’scutcheon fair was dimmed by breath of blame;
          The stain is washed away by woman’s tears;
          His patron-queen forbids his anxious fears—
        Her gracious sweetness brings him to the dust.
          The pledge of royal favor now he hears.—
        But, oh! too long it waited—_to be just_;
          While care and grief led on the lingering years.

            XI.—COLUMBUS PROPOSES A NEW CRUSADE.

        The evening sky is bright with blended hues;
          A soft, mild radiance, borrowed from on high,
          Seems, to our view, to bring e’en heaven nigh,
        And its pure essence in our souls infuse.
        Thus, to that noble heart, as from the sky,
          There came a presence, in life’s slow decline;
          He viewed it as a holy seal and sign—
        The Cross must crown the city of the Jews!
        Like the pure incense-flame he soars from earth;
          In fancy sees the prophet’s page unroll,
        And reads therein the presage of his birth,
          The mighty mission of his single soul!
        Life’s pathway bears for him a healing balm,
        Which cheers his heart and nerves his fainting arm.

            XII.—THE DEATH OF COLUMBUS.

        He cometh to the shore of that vast sea,[5]
          Whereon he never yet hath spread his sail;
          His last, last voyage. Now every chart must fail,
        Save that, our Father! he received of Thee!
        With an unwavering trust he meets the wave,
          Which bears him onward to the dread unknown;
          From man’s injustice to that mighty Throne,
        Supreme in power, Omnipotent to save.
        Ah! ne’er from that far land shall he return!
          His dust shall mingle with his mother-earth
          In that fair isle to which his skill gave birth.[6]
        That mighty soul! where doth it “breathe and burn?”
        What worlds hath it discerned beyond the tomb,
        Which to our eyes are all enwrapped in gloom?

-----

[5]

                              “The shore
        Of that vast ocean we must sail so soon.”

[6] The remains of Columbus were deposited in the convent of St.
Francisco, but repeatedly removed, and, finally, on the 15th January,
1796, transferred, with almost regal pomp, to the island of Cuba.

                   TO A FRIEND—WITH A BUNCH OF ROSES.

                       BY MISS L. VIRGINIA SMITH.

 Go forth in beauty blushing to the one I love so well—
 Let this dewy fragrance gushing to his spirit softly tell
 How a secret, sweet revealing from a gentle kindred heart,
 Far through his bosom stealing, comes to seek its nobler part.

 Oh! there’s not a spell so glowing in this lovely world of ours,
 As when Feeling’s tones are flowing through the voices of the flowers,
 When Affection’s thoughts are wreathing in a murmured melody
 Round their dewy petals breathing forth a music-mystery.

 There are angel voices given in their delicate perfume,
 Which will lead us up to Heaven where the fadeless roses bloom,
 They have come unto us glowing with a beauty from the skies,
 They are gifts of God’s bestowing, from a blessed Paradise.

 Let a bright and lovely vision from our sunny Southern bowers,
 A dream of joy elysian be awakened by these flowers,
 For a wealth of bliss is filling all the loveliness they wear,
 And their tiny leaves are thrilling with the messages they bear.

 Where the velvet bud uncloses to the morning’s golden beam
 Be thy life like summer roses floating o’er a summer stream,
 And amid its sunny bowers may a gentle heart be thine,
 To bring thee back the flowers which thou hast thrown o’er mine.

 Yes—a gentle heart to bring them—leaves from out the distant past,