“We must drive away the mists of suspense by the sunbeams of hope,” replied the pacha. “What am I but the sultan’s slave? Shall we not indulge this evening in the water of the Giaour.”
“What saith Hafiz? It is for wine to exalt men, and raise them beyond uncertainty and doubt. It overfloweth us with courage, and imparts visions of bliss.”
“Wallah thaib, it is well said, Mustapha,” said the pacha, taking a cup of coffee, presented by the Greek slave.
Mustapha also received his cup. “My heart is light this evening,” said the pacha, laying down his pipe, “let us drink deep of the forbidden juice. Where is it, Mustapha?”
“It is here,” replied the vizier, drinking off his coffee; while the pacha watched him from the corner of his small grey eye. And Mustapha produced the spirits, which were behind the low ottoman upon which he was seated.
The pacha put aside his coffee, and drank a large draught. “God is great; drink, Mustapha,” said he, handing him the bottle.
Mustapha followed the example of the pacha. “May it please your highness,” said Mustapha, “I have without a man, who they say hath stories to recount more delightful than those of Menouni. Hearing that he passed through this city, I have detained him, that he might afford amusement to your highness, whose slave I am. Is it your pleasure that he be admitted?”
“Let it be so,” replied the pacha.
Mustapha gave the sign, and to the surprise of the pacha, in came the renegade, commander of the fleet, accompanied by guards and the well-known officer of the caliph, the Capidji Bachi, who held up a firman to his forehead.
The pacha turned pale, for he knew that his hour was come. “Bismillah! In the name of the Most High, O officer, whom seekest thou?” exclaimed the pacha with emotion.