“How!” exclaimed the aga, who was now almost incapable of speech. “Very well, rascal Greek! die you shall, like your master. Holy Prophet! what a state for a Mussulman to go to Paradise in—impregnated with the essence of a cursed Jew!—Wretch! you shall die—you shall die.”
He made a grasp at me, and missing his foot, fell on the ground in such a state of drunkenness as not to be able to get up again. I knew that when he became sober, he would not forget what had taken place, and that I should be sacrificed to his vengeance. The fear of death, and the wine which I had drunk, decided me how to act. I dragged him into an empty pipe, put the head in, hooped it up, and rolling it into the tier, filled it with wine. Thus did I revenge my poor master, and relieved myself from any further molestation on the part of the aga.
“What!” cried the pacha, in a rage, “you drowned a true believer—an aga of janissaries! Thou dog of a kafir—thou son of Shitan—and dare avow it! Call in the executioner.”
“Mercy! your sublime highness, mercy!” cried the Greek—“Have I not your promise by the sword of the Prophet? Besides, he was no true believer, or he would not have disobeyed the law. A good Mussulman will never touch a drop of wine.”
“I promised to forgive, and did forgive, the murder of the black slave; but an aga of janissaries!—Is not that quite another thing?” appealed the pacha to Mustapha.
“Your highness is just in your indignation—the kafir deserves to be impaled. Yet there are two considerations which your slave ventures to submit to your sublime wisdom. The first is, that your highness gave an unconditional promise, and swore by the sword of the Prophet.”
“Staffir Allah! what care I for that! Had I sworn to a true believer, it were something.”
“The other is, that the slave has not yet finished his story which appears to be interesting.”
“Wallah! that is true. Let him finish his story.”