"Well, my Lord," said the ambassador, touched by the brevity of the communication, "did not the great lady deign an explanation?"
"She declined—that is all."
The ambassador hurried a courier to Constantinople with the answer. For the first time he ventured to express a doubt of the Turk's sincerity.
He would have been a wiser man and infinitely more useful to his sovereign, could he have heard Mahommed again in colloquy with the Prince of India.
"How long am I to endure this dog of a Gabour?" [Footnote: Mahommed always wrote and spoke of Byzantines as Romans, except when in passion; then he called them Gabours.] asked the Sultan, angrily. "It was not enough to waylay me in my palace; he pursued me into the field; now he imbitters my bread, now at my bedside he drives sleep from me, now he begrudges me time for prayer. How long, I say?"
The Prince answered quietly: "Until March twenty-sixth, fourteen hundred and fifty-two."
"But if I put him to sleep, O Prince?"
"His master will send another in his place."
"Ah, but the interval! Will it not be so many days of rest?—so many nights of unbroken sleep?"
"Has my Lord finished his census yet? Are his arsenals full? Has he his ships, and sailors, and soldiers? Has he money according to the estimate?"