He fancied himself in the presence of a turbaned Turk, a powerful pasha, who was sitting cross-legged on an ottoman, smoking a pipe, of endless length, and holding in his hand a drawn sword—a scimitar that looked ready to chop his head off.
Beside this terrible Turk stood five ladies, in baggy trousers, and long veils.
No words were spoken, but instinctively the orphan knew that he had to decide between the scimitar and the quintet of wives—wall-flowers of the pasha's harem.
Silently, in mute horror, the orphan was about to submit to the least of the two evils, and choose a wife.
Then he awoke suddenly.
What an immense relief it was to find it only a dream after all.
"I don't quite believe that young Harkaway," said the orphan, dubiously; "he is such a dreadful practical joker. But I won't go on shore, nevertheless. It's not very interesting to see these savages, after all; they really are nothing more than savages."
And after a long and tedious time spent in endeavouring to get to sleep again, he dropped off.
But only to dream again about getting very much married.