"You make me a man again, comrade," said he, grasping his hand. "These few days playing Sultan make me feel as old as the empire. I hate this parade of boring viziers and mincing eunuchs; and to be shut up here with these palace proprieties is as irksome to me as Timour's iron cage was to my grandfather Bajazet. I think I shall put my harem on horse-back, and take to the fields. Scudding out of Albania with Scanderbeg at one's heels were preferable to this busy idleness. You have had a rapid ride to get from Brusa so soon, and look winded. Roll yourself on that wolf's skin. I killed that fellow in Caramania. By the turban of Abraham! your red head looks well against the black hide. But why don't you laugh? Have they made a Padishah of you, too, that you must mask your face with care?"
"I have a care, Sire," said the soldier.
"Tell me it," said the Sultan, "and I'll make it fly away as fast as the Prophet's horse took him to the seventh heaven."
"The Janizaries are restless, Sire."
"Does not the donative I have announced pacify them?"
"I have not heard of it," said the officer.
"Listen! Is not that their shout?" Shout after shout rent the air from the court without.
The Janizary turned pale; but in a moment said, "Your donative has been announced. They are cheering your Majesty."
"Long live the Padishah!" "Long life to Mahomet!" rang again and again.
"I thank you, Sire," eagerly cried the young man, kissing the hand of the Sultan.