“Did you fulfil your promise to the Italian captain, by having five hundred masses said for his soul?” inquired Mustapha.
“Upon my salvation! I never thought of it to this moment,” replied the renegade.
“Such, your highness are the adventures of my fifth voyage; and I trust, that the narration of them has afforded you entertainment.”
“Yes,” observed the pacha, rising, “that was some thing like a voyage. Mustapha, give him thirty pieces of gold. Huckaback, we will hear your sixth voyage to-morrow”—and the pacha retired behind the screen, and, as usual, went into the apartment of the women.
“Pray, Selim, was there any truth in that history of the princess? I thought at first that it was all invention; but when you wept—”
“That was for the sake of effect,” answered the renegade: “when I get warmed with my story, I often work myself up to a degree that I almost believe it myself.”
“Holy Prophet! what a talent!” rejoined Mustapha. “What an excellent prime minister you would have made in your own country! Here’s your money; will your next voyage be as good?”
“I’ll try, at all events; as I find that the principal increases with the interest,” said the renegade, chinking the sequins in his hand. Au revoir, as we say in France—and the renegade quitted the divan.
“Allah—what a talent!” muttered the vizier to himself, as the renegade disappeared.