The old pasha was receiving his guests in his superb garden, and I, after eating all the sweets my father would permit me to, and becoming tired of their talk, which happened not to interest me, slipped away. I wandered about in the garden, and presently came across a little girl, older than myself, yet not so old as to form a barrier between us. It is true that we came very near fighting, at first, over the bravery of our respective races, but we ended, thanks to the courtesy of my little hostess, by becoming friends.
Taking my hand in hers we ran all the way to where the pasha and my father were seated. She interrupted their conversation without ceremony, and perching herself on her grandfather’s knees, she demanded that he should borrow me for her from my father.
I stood listening, confident that my father would never, never consent to such a terrible thing. When my father consented—reluctantly it is true; yet he did consent—cold shivers ran up and down my back, and my eyelids fell heavily over my eyes. I felt abandoned—abandoned by the one human being for whom I entertained the greatest confidence. Sheer will-power kept me from throwing myself on my father’s knees and imploring him to save me from the Turks. Had I not been bragging to the little girl but a few minutes before that I was a Greek, and consequently an extremely brave person, I am sure I should have broken into sobs. As it was, I let myself be led away by the little girl without even kissing my father good-bye; for that would have broken down my self-control. That, I felt, was more than even Greek blood could do. I resigned myself to my dreadful fate, but my legs felt like ripe cucumbers.
Little Djimlah enveloped me in a long caress. “You are my very own baby,” she said. “I never had one before, and I shall love you vastly, and give you all I have.”
Holding my hand in hers she began to run as fast as she could, pulling me along down the long avenue of trees, leading to the house. At the door she did not knock. It opened as by magic of its own accord.
My first glimpse of the interior corresponded exactly with the pictures of my imagination; for in 1885 Turkish homes still preserved all their oriental customs. The hall was large, dark, and gloomy; and the eunuch, who had opened the door by pulling his rope, added to its terrors. And since that was a great festival day, and many ladies were calling, the hall was lined with these sinister black men, the whites of whose eyes glistened in the darkness.
Still hand in hand, Djimlah and I mounted a flight of dark, carpetless stairs and came to a landing screened by very much the same kind of a curtain as those that hang outside the doors of the Catholic churches on the Continent.
“Open!” Djimlah cried, and silently two eunuchs drew aside the curtains, and we passed to another flight of bare stairs, now full of light and sunshine. With the sun a peal of laughter greeted us, and when we reached the upper hall I felt a trifle less afraid.
Scrambling about on rugs were what seemed to me at first to be a thousand young women, very much like my Kiamelé, dressed in as many colours as there were heads, barefooted and barearmed. They were having the greatest frolics, and laughing like a pack of children.
“Hullo, there!” cried Djimlah.