"Powers above! what a situation am I in!" exclaimed Mole, in increasing dismay. "I find it's not all roses after all, being a pasha; but thorns, stinging nettles, and torturing brambles. But about these thirteen widows, Abdullah? Who and where are they, and what are they like?"
"They are at present in a house not far off from here," was the reply; "five of them, it seems, have been the widows of the pasha before last, and they are rather old; six belonged only to Youssouf Pasha, and are middle-aged."
Mr. Mole responded with a deep groan.
"The other two," proceeded Abdullah, "are fair Circassians in the very summer of youth and beauty."
Moley Pasha uttered a profound sigh.
"Ah, that's much better."
"I expect they will be here soon, at least some of them," said Abdullah, the interpreter.
The subject then dropped for a time, and the great Moley also dropped—asleep, from the combined effects of the pipe, the coffee, and the wine.
He was suddenly awakened by Abdullah shouting in his ear—
"May it please your excellency, they've come."