The tears trickled from his eyes as he spoke.
The Turk did not appear in the least affected.
"What bosh is all this?" he asked, after a moment, in a hard, unsympathetic tone.
"It's no bosh at all, I assure you, my dear signor," replied Figgins, earnestly; "the fact is, I heard you play on your flute, and its sweet tones so soothed my spirits—which are at this moment extremely low—that I am come to make several requests."
"Umph!" growled the Turk; "what are they?"
"First, that you will play me another of your charming airs, next, that you will allow me to attempt one myself, and thirdly, that you will sell me the instrument you hold in your hand.'"
The Turk glared for a moment fiercely at the proposer of these modest requests, and then politely wishing the graves of his departed relatives might be perpetually defiled, he replied curtly—
"First, I am not going to play any more to-night; next, I will see you in Jehanum[1] ] before I allow you to play; and thirdly, I won't sell my flute."
[1] The abode of lost spirits.