“But your highness will probably be tired; and as I have now told how it was that I suffered the bastinado, you will perhaps wait till to-morrow for the history of the bowstring.”
“I believe that the old woman is right,” said Mustapha, yawning, “it is late. Is it your highness’s pleasure that she shall return to-morrow evening?”
“Be it so; but let her be in close custody—you remember.”
“Be chesm—on my eyes be it. Guards, remove this woman from the sublime presence.”
“It appears to me,” said the pacha to Mustapha, “that this old woman’s story may be true. The description of the harem is so correct—commanding one day, bastinadoed the next.”
“Who can doubt the fact, your sublime highness? The Lord of Life dispenses as he thinks fit.”
“Very true; he might send me the bowstring tomorrow.”
“Allah forbid!”
“I pray with you; but life is uncertain, and it is our fate. You are my vizier to-day, for instance—what may you be to-morrow?”
“Whatever your highness may decide,” replied Mustapha, not much liking the turn of the conversation. “Am not I your slave—and as the dirt under your feet—and shall I not bow to your sovereign pleasure and my destiny?”