At night we crouched together in a corner, somewhat apart from the rest, and weary of communing, surmising, and conjecturing, slept the sleep of the anxious and worn—that waking and painful doze, which is but a succession of nightmares and visions, till dawn again struggled through the misty atmosphere, to light up the quaint forms and ferocious faces of these fettered wretches, and to bring the Turkish guard, with their daily allowance of black bread and fresh water, when again would begin the usual chorus of laughter, groans, and curses, mingled with the swinging and clashing of fetters and chains, bolts and padlocks of rusty iron.
Among the unfortunates confined in this place I discovered two who were treated by our guards with more kindness and respect than the other prisoners, and whose stories somewhat interested me.
One was hopelessly insane; and the other, who was indeed sunk to the lowest depth of misery and dejection, informed me that they had been lieutenants (Mulazims) in the Turkish military service.
CHAPTER L.
THE TWO TURKISH LIEUTENANTS.
'I am Achmet Effendi,' said the latter, a handsome but pale, sad, and emaciated young man; 'I was a lieutenant in the old regiment of Scherif Bey, and, as a mere boy, served in the campaign of Egypt. My younger friend whom you see here so heavily visited by heaven and the prophet, that his mind is gone or possessed by a devil, so that he requires chains and bars three times heavier than the most powerful villain here, is Ali Effendi, a Mulazim of artillery, and there is none better or braver in the army of his Imperial Majesty the Sultan.
'He was with that Turkish army which on the 28th October, 1853, crossed the Danube, and on the 4th of the following month won the victorious battle of Oltenitza, where he slew the aide-de-camp of the Russian General, and found those important despatches which informed us, but alas! too late, of the intended attack upon Sinope, where four thousand five hundred of the Faithful were slaughtered by the dogs of the Czar.
'Ali Effendi was next engaged and severely wounded at the battle of Kalaphat on the 8th of January, 1854—you may still see the scar of the Russian bullet on his bare right arm, above the iron fetter. Ali is tall—he was then handsome and winning; a clever poet and maker of verses; an expert player on the guitar, but poor; for, like myself, he had only one hundred and twenty piastres per month, as a lieutenant en seconde, of Topchis.
'For five years he had loved and been beloved by the daughter of a wealthy Stambouli merchant, and he had received her plighted troth. You may know all the danger, the difficulties, and the deadly snares that hover round a Turkish love; yet the skilful Ali had surmounted and escaped them all, and won the love of Saïda. But her father discovered them, and he was inexorable, of course—fathers always are so, for they are the evil Genii of all love stories, and so he proposed to barter or sell her to Ali Pasha himself!
'Poor Ali, my friend, was marched off with his brigade of artillery to fight the Russians under Mouravieff at Kars, and the unhappy Saïda was in despair when the Pasha sent the dressmakers from the bazaar to measure her for the bridal attire and pearl slippers. Then her grief and fury could no longer be controlled; and bruising the crystal pendant of a lamp to powder, she drank it in a cup of sherbet and expired, with the name of Ali on her lips, and a copy of his last farewell verses, written on fine silk, pressed to her heart.