“Happy in being permitted to attend upon your highness,” was the reply, delivered in a soft and tremulous tone.
“But is it in my power to render you happier?” demanded the grand vizier.
Constantine hung down his head—reflected for a few moments, and then murmured “Yes.”
“Then, by Heaven!” exclaimed Ibrahim Pasha, “thou hast only to name thy request, and it will be granted. I know not wherefore, but I am attached to thee much. I feel interested in thy welfare, and I would be rejoiced to minister to thy happiness.”
“I am already happier than I was—happier, because my lips have drunk in such words flowing from the lips of one who is exalted as highly as I am insignificant and humble.” said the page, in a voice tremulous with emotion, but sweetly musical. “Yes, I am happier,” he continued—“and yet my soul is filled with the image of a dear, a well-beloved sister, who pines in loneliness and solitude, ever dwelling on a hapless love which she has formed for one who knows not that he is so loved, and who perhaps may never—never know it.”
“Ah, thou hast a sister, Constantine?” exclaimed the grand vizier. “And is she as lovely as a sister of a youth so handsome as thou art ought to be?”
“She has been assured by those who have sought her hand, that she is indeed beautiful,” answered Constantine. “But of what avail are her charms, since he whom she loves may never whisper in her ear the delicious words, ‘I love thee in return.’”
“Does the object of her affections possess so obdurate a heart?” inquired the grand vizier, strangely interested in the discourse of his youthful page.
“It is not that he scorns my sister’s love,” replied Constantine; “but it is that he knows not of its existence. It is true that he has seen her once—yet ’twere probable that he remembers not there is such a being in the world. Thus came it to pass, my lord—an officer, holding a high rank in the service of his imperial majesty, the great Solyman, had occasion to visit a humble dwelling wherein my sister resided. She—poor silly maiden! was so struck by his almost god-like beauty—so dazzled by his fascinating address—so enchanted by the sound of his voice, that she surrendered up her heart suddenly and secretly—surrendered it beyond all power of reclamation. Since then she has never ceased to ponder upon this fatal passion—this unhappy love; she has nursed his image in her mind, until her reason has rocked with the wild thoughts, the ardent hopes, the emotions of despair—all the conflicting sentiments of feeling, in a word, which so ardent and so strange a love must naturally engender. Enthusiastic, yet tender; fervent, yet melting in her soul; and while she does not attempt to close her eyes to the conviction that she is cherishing a passion which is preying upon her very vitals, she nevertheless clings to it as a martyr to the stake! Oh! my lord, canst thou marvel if I feel deeply for my unhappy sister?”
“But wherefore doth she remain thus unhappy?” demanded Ibrahim-Pasha. “Surely there are means of conveying to the object of her attachment an intimation how deeply he is beloved? and he must be something more than human,” he added, in an impassioned tone, “if he can remain obdurate to the tears and sighs of a beauteous creature, such as thy sister doubtless is.”