“Let him approach, that our ears may be gratified. Barek Allah! Praise be to God. There are others who can obtain stories besides the Caliph Haroun.”
The slave was ordered into the pacha’s presence. He was a dark man with handsome features, and he walked in with a haughty carriage, which neither his condition nor tattered garments could disguise. When within a few feet of the carpet of state he bowed and folded his arms in silence. “I wish to know upon what grounds you asserted that you were so good a judge of wine the other evening, when you were quarrelling with the Greek slave.”
“I stated my reason at the time, your highness, which was, because I had been for many years a monk of the Dominican order.”
“I recollect that you said so. What trade is that, Mustapha?” inquired the pacha.
“If your slave is not mistaken, a good trade everywhere. The infidel means that he was a mollah or dervish among the followers of Isauri (Jesus Christ).”
“May they and their fathers’ graves be eternally defiled,” cried the pacha. “Do not they drink wine and eat pork? Have you nothing more to say?” inquired the pacha.
“My life has been one of interest,” replied the slave; “and if it will please your highness, I will narrate my history.”
“It is our condescension. Sit down and proceed.”
Story of the Monk.
May it please your highness, I am a Spaniard by birth, and a native of Seville; but whether my father was a grandee, or of more humble extraction, I cannot positively assert. All that I can establish is, that when reason dawned, I found myself in the asylum instituted by government, in that city, for those unfortunate beings who are brought up upon black bread and oil, because their unnatural parents either do not choose to incur the expense of their maintenance, or having, in the first instance, allowed unlawful love to conquer shame, end by permitting shame to overcome maternal love.