CHAPTER XXXVII.
An hour later the Kislar Aga, chief of the black eunuchs in charge of the royal harem, was announced.
"Well, Sinam, have any of your herd of gazelles escaped?" asked the Sultan.
"None. But Mira Sultana would pay her homage at your Majesty's feet."
"Mira, the Greek?" said Mahomet, the deep color rising to his temples.
Lowering his tone to a whisper, he conversed for a few moments with the eunuch, who prostrated himself upon the ground, and with harsh, yet thin voice, said:
"Your Majesty is wise, very wise. Your will is that of Allah, the Great Hunkiar. It shall be done."
Mira was a beautiful woman. The light texture of her robe revealed a perfect form; and the thin veil lent a charm to her face, such as shadows send across the landscape.
Mahomet shuddered, as the kneeling woman embraced his feet. The words of her congratulation to the young monarch, her protestation of devotion to him as to his father, though uttered with the sweetest voice he had ever heard, and with evident honesty, sent a visible tremor through the frame of her listener. And when she added, "My child, Ahmed, the image of his noble father and thine, will serve thee with his life, and"—
"It is well! It is well," interrupted the Sultan. "Be gone now!"
The morning following was one in which the hearts of the citizens of Adrianople stood almost throbless with horror. Mothers clasped their babes with a shudder to their breasts; and fathers stroked the fair hair of their boys, and thanked Allah that no tide of royal blood ran in their veins. A story afterward floated over the lands of Moslem and Christian, as terrible as a cloud of blood, dropping its shadow into palace and cottage, and dyeing that page of history on which Mahomet's name is written with a damning blot.
While Mira Sultana was bowing at the feet of the new monarch, congratulating him upon his accession to the throne, her infant son, Ahmed, half brother to Mahomet, was being strangled in the bath by his orders. Another son of Amurath, Calapin, had, through his mother's timely suspicion, escaped to the land of the Christians.
It was late in the day when Captain Ballaban appeared for audience with the Sultan. His Majesty was apparently in the gayest of moods.
"Come, toss me the dice! We have not played since I laid aside my manhood and put on the Padishah's cloak. Come! What? Have you no stake to put up? Then I will stake for both. A Turkoman, the father of my own bride, has sent me a bevy of women, Georgians, with faces as fair as the shell of an ostrich's egg,[72] and voices as sweet as of the birds which sang to the harp of David.[73] The choice to him who wins! What! does not that tempt the cloud to drift off your face? Then have your choice without the toss. What! still brooding?" added he, growing angry. "By the holy house at Mecca! I'll make you laugh if I tickle your ribs with my dagger's point."
"You made me promise that I would be true to you, my Padishah, and if I should laugh to-day I would not be true," replied Ballaban quietly. "My face wears the shadows which the people have thrown into it."
"The people?" said Mahomet growing pale.
"Ay, the people have heard the wailing of the Sultana."
"For what? Tell me for what?" asked the Sultan with feigned surprise.
Ballaban narrated the story which was on every one's lips.
"It is treason against me," cried the monarch. Summoning the Capee Aga he bade him call the divan.
The great personages of the empire were speedily gathered in the audience room. At the right of the Sultan stood the Grand Vizier and three subordinate viziers. On his left was the Kadiasker, the chief of the judges, with other members of the ulema or guild of lawyers, constituting the high court. The Reis-Effendi, or clerk, stood with his tablets before the seat of the Sultan. The rear of the room was filled with various princes and high officials.
Turning to the Kadiasker, the Sultan asked:
"What is the denomination of the crime, and the penalty of him who, unbidden by the Padishah, shall put to death a child of royal blood?"
The Kadiasker, after a moment's evident surprise at the question, pronounced slowly the following decision:
"It were a double crime, Sire, being both murder and treason. And if perchance the child were fatherless, let a triple curse come upon the slayer. For what saith the Book of the Prophet?[74] 'They who devour the possessions of orphans unjustly, shall swallow down nothing but fire into their bellies, and shall broil in raging flames.' If such be the curse of Allah upon him who shall despoil the child of his rightful goods, much more does Allah bid us visit with vengeance one who despoils the child of that chiefest possession—his life. Such is the law, O Zil Ullah."[75]
Turning to the Kislar Aga, Mahomet commanded him to give testimony.
The Nubian trembled as he looked into the blanched face of the Sultan; but soon recovered his self possession sufficiently to read his master's thoughts, and said,
"The child of Mira Sultana was found dead at the bath while in the hands of Sayid."
"Was Sayid the child's appointed attendant?" asked the Kadiasker.
"He was not," was the response.
"Let him die!" said the judge slowly.
"Let him die!" repeated the Grand Vizier.
The Sultan bowed in assent and withdrew.
The swift vengeance of the Padishah was hailed with applause by the officials, as if it had erased the blood guilt from the robe of royal honor; but the people shook their heads, and kept shadows on their faces for many days.
"I tire of this life in the barracks," said Captain Ballaban to the Sultan, shortly after this event.
"Speak honestly, man," was the reply. "You tire of me; my heart is not large enough to entertain one of such ambition."
"Nay, Sire, but I would get nearer to the innermost core of your heart, into that which is your deepest desire."
"And where, think you, is that spot?" said the Sultan smiling.
"Constantinople," was the laconic response.
"Ah! true lover of mine art thou, if you would be there. Until I put the Mihrab[76] in the walls of St. Sophia, I shall not sleep without the dream that I have done it. Know you not the dream of Othman? how the leaves of the tree which sprang from his bosom when the fair Malkhatoon, the mother of all the Padishahs, sank upon it, were shaped like cimeters, and every wind turned their points toward Constantinople? My waking and sleeping thoughts are the leaves. The spirit of Othman breathes through my soul and turns them thither. Go! and prepare my coming. The walls withstood my father Amurath. Discover why? I hear that Urban, the cannon founder, is in the pay of the Greeks. He who discovered a way to turn the Dibrians against Sfetigrade can find a way to turn a foreigner's eyes from the battered crown of the Cæsars to something brighter—Go, and Allah give you wisdom!"
The reader is acquainted with the immediate sequel of Captain Ballaban's departure, his adventure with the Italian desperadoes at the old reservoir, and his success with Urban.