It was so still that water sounds came faintly up to him, and every now and then he could even hear nightingales on the European side. Another nightingale began singing in his own woods—the same one that had told him what to do, he said to himself. What other things the nightingales had sung to him, years ago! And how long the pines had listened there, still strong and green and rugged and alive, while he, and how many before him, sat under them for a little while and then went away!
Presently he heard steps on the drive and Shaban came, carrying something dark in his hand.
'What is that?' asked the Pasha, as Shaban held it out.
'A revolver, my Pasha. Zümbül Agha told me you wanted it.'
The Pasha laughed curtly.
'Zümbül made a mistake. What I want is a shovel, or a couple of them. Can you find such a thing without asking any one?'
'Yes, my Pasha,' replied the Albanian promptly, laying the revolver on the steps and disappearing again. And it was not long before he was back with the desired implements.
'We must dig a hole, somewhere, Shaban,' said his master in a low voice. 'It must be in a place where people are not likely to go, but not too far from the kiosque.'
Shaban immediately started toward the trees at the back of the house. The Pasha followed him silently into a path that wound through the wood. A nightingale began to sing again, very near them—the nightingale, thought the Pasha.
'He is telling us where to go,' he said.