"Who—who?" gasped Mole, in fearful terror; for he had just been dreaming of the rack and the bowstring.
"The noble Ladies Alme and Hannifar, widows of the late lamented Youssouf-Pasha," was the reply.
"Gracious mercy!" exclaimed the persecuted Mole; "they've come to claim me, perhaps to bear me off by main force."
"Ho, there, guards; stand round; not without a struggle will Isaac Mole surrender his liberty as a single man, that is as a married man, but not—Heaven, my brain is growing utterly confused in this terrible position. Where's that boy Jack?"
"Their excellencies Yakoob and Haroun Pasha are both gone out," was the response.
"Then, Abdullah, I command you to stand up in my defence. Come here."
The old interpreter approached with a low bow.
"Write on two pieces of card the words—'Admire Moley Pasha, but touch not him.'"
"In Turkish?"
"Turkish and English, too."