But now that Calanthe’s countenance burst upon him in all the glory of its superb Greek beauty, that resemblance struck him with all the force of a new idea; and he was about to express his astonishment that so wondrous a likeness should subsist between brother and sister, when the maiden sunk at his feet, exclaiming, “Pardon me, great vizier; but Constantine and Calanthe are one and the same thing.”
“Methought the brother pleaded with marvelous eloquence on behalf of his sister,” said Ibrahim, with a smile; and raising Calanthe from her suppliant posture, he led her to a seat, gazing on her the while with eyes expressive of intense passion.
“Your highness,” observed the maiden, after a short pause, “has heard from my own lips how profound is the attachment which I have dared to conceive for you—how great is the admiration which I entertain for the brilliant powers of your intellect. To be with thee, great Ibrahim, will I abandon my country, friends—ay, and even creed, shouldst thou demand that concession; for in thee—and in thee only—are all my hopes of happiness now centered!”
“And those hopes shall not be disappointed, dearest Calanthe!” exclaimed Ibrahim, clasping her in his arms. “But a few minutes before you entered this room a hundred women—the choicest flowers of all climes—were gathered here; and yet I value one smile on thy lips more than all the tender endearments that those purchased houris could bestow. For thy love was unbought—it was a love that prompted thee to attach thyself to me in a menial capacity——”
The impassioned language of the grand vizier was suddenly interrupted by the opening of the door, and three black slaves glided into the anteroom—half crouching as they stole along—and fixing on the beauteous Calanthe eyes, the dark pupils of which seemed to glare horribly from the whites in which they were set.
“Dogs! what signifies this intrusion?” exclaimed Ibrahim Pasha, starting from the sofa, and grasping the handle of his scimiter.
The chief the three slaves uttered not a word of reply, but exhibited the imperial signet, and at the same time unrolled from the coil which he had hitherto held in his hand a long green silken bowstring. At that ominous spectacle Ibrahim fell back, his countenance becoming ashy pale, and his frame trembling with an icy shudder from head to foot.
“Choose between this and her,” whispered the slave, in a deep tone, as he first glanced at the bowstring and then looked toward Calanthe, who knew that some terrible danger was impending, but was unable to divine where or when it was to fall.
“Merciful Allah!” exclaimed the grand vizier; and throwing himself upon the floor, he buried his face in his hands.
In another moment Calanthe was seized and gagged, before even a word or a scream could escape her lips; but Ibrahim heard the rustling of her dress as she unavailingly struggled with the monsters in whose power she was. The selfish ingrate! he drew not his scimiter to defend her—he no longer remembered all the tender love she bore him—but, appalled by the menace of the bowstring, backed by the warrant of the sultan’s signet ring, he lay groveling on the rich Persian carpet, giving vent to his alarms by low and piteous groans.