For nearly sixteen years did Ibrahim Pasha govern the Ottoman realms in the name of the sultan: for nearly sixteen years did he hold the imperial seals which had been intrusted to him at a period when the colossal power of the empire seemed tottering to its fall. During that interval he raised the Ottoman name to the highest pinnacle of glory—extended the dominions of his master—and shook the proudest thrones in Christendom to their foundation. Ferdinand, King of Hungary, called him “brother,” and the Emperor Charles the Fifth of Germany styled him “cousin” in the epistolary communications which passed between them. But a Greek who had long, long cherished a deadly hatred against the puissant grand vizier, at last contrived to enter the service of the sultan in the guise of a slave; and this man, succeeding in gaining that monarch’s ear, whispered mysterious warnings against the ambition of Ibrahim. Solyman became alarmed; and, opening his eyes to the real position of affairs, perceived that the vizier was indeed far more powerful than himself. This was enough to insure the immediate destruction of a Turkish minister.
Accordingly, one evening, Ibrahim was invited to dine with the sultan, and to sleep at the imperial palace. Never had Solyman appeared more attached to his favorite than on this occasion and Ibrahim retired to a chamber prepared for him, with a heart elated by the caresses bestowed upon him by his imperial master. But in the dead of night he was awakened by the entrance of several persons into the room; and starting up with terror, the grand vizier beheld four black slaves, headed by a Greek, creep snake-like toward his couch. And that Greek’s countenance, sinister and menacing, was immediately recognized by the affrighted Ibrahim—though more than fifteen years had elapsed since he had set eyes upon those features. Short and ineffectual was the struggle against the messengers of death; the accursed bowstring encircled the neck of the unhappy Ibrahim, and at the moment when the vindictive Greek drew tight the fatal noose, the last words which hissed in the ears of the grand vizier, were—“The wrongs of Calanthe are avenged!”
Thus perished the most powerful minister that ever held the imperial seals of Ottoman domination;—and the long-pent-up but never subdued vindictive feelings of Demetrius were assuaged at length! Dame Francatelli had long been numbered with those who were gone to their eternal homes when the news of the death of Ibrahim Pasha reached Florence. But the Count and Countess of Riverola shed many, many tears at the sad and untimely fate of the grand vizier.
Time, however, smooths down all grief; and happiness again returned to the Riverola Palace. For when Francisco and Flora looked around them and beheld the smiling progeny which had blessed their union,—when they experienced the sweet solace of each other’s sympathy, the outpourings of two hearts which beat as one, ever in unison, and filled with a mutual love which time impaired not,—then they remembered that it was useless and wrong to repine against the decrees of Providence; and, in this trusting faith in Heaven and in the enjoyment of each other’s unwearying affection, they lived to a good old age—dying at length in the arms of their children.
[THE END.]