“Mashallah! how wonderful is God! I would we had a river here. Let some be procured, then, for I wish to hear his story.”
A bottle of brandy was sent for, and handed to the sailor, who put it to his mouth; and the quantity he took of it before he removed the bottle to recover his breath, fully convinced the pacha that Mustapha’s assertions were true.
“Come, that’s not so bad,” said the sailor, putting the bottle down between his legs; “and now I’ll be as good as my word, and I’ll spin old Billy a yarn as long as the maintop-bowling.”
“What sayeth the Giaour?” interrupted the pacha.
“That he is about to lay at your highness’s feet the wonderful events of his life, and trusts that his face will be whitened before he quits your sublime presence. Frank, you may proceed.”
“To lie till I’m black in the face—well, since you wish it; but, old chap, my name a’r’nt Frank. It happens to be Bill; howsomever, it warn’t a bad guess for a Turk; and now I’m here, I’d just like to ax you a question. We had a bit of a hargument the other day, when I was in a frigate up the Dardanelles, as to what your religion might be. Jack Soames said that you warn’t Christians, but that if you were, you could only be Catholics; but I don’t know how he could know any thing about it, seeing that he had not been more than seven weeks on board of a man of war. What may you be—if I may make so bold as to ax the question?”
“What does he say?” inquired the pacha, impatiently.
“He says,” interrupted Mustapha, “that he was not so fortunate as to be born in the country of the true believers, but in an island full of fog and mist, where the sun never shines, and the cold is so intense, that the water from heaven is hard and cold as a flint.”
“That accounts for their not drinking it. Mashallah, God is great! Let him proceed.”
“The pacha desires me to say, that there is but one God, and Mahomet is his Prophet; and begs that you will go on with your story.”