“I am here in obedience to the will of the pacha,” replied the man in a most musical voice, as he salaamed low. “What does his highness require of his slave Menouni?”
“His highness requires a proof of thy talent, and an opportunity to extend his bounty.”
“I am less than dust, and am ready to cover my head with ashes, not to feel my soul in the seventh heaven at the condescension of his highness; yet would I fain do his bidding and depart, for a vow to the Prophet is sacred, and it is written in the Koran—”
“Never mind the Koran just now, good Menouni; we ask of thee a proof of thy art. Tell me a story.”
“Most proud shall I be of the honour. Will not my face be whitened to all eternity? Shall your slave relate the loves of Leilah and Majnoun?”
“No, no,” replied the pacha; “something that will interest me.”
“Then will I narrate the history of the Scarred Lover.”
“That sounds well, Mustapha,” observed the pacha.
“Who can foresee so well as your sublime highness?” replied Mustapha. “Menouni, it is the pleasure of the pacha that you proceed.”
“Your slave obeys. Your sublime perspicuity is but too well acquainted with geography—?”