She was sleeping when they entered—Her cheek was pillowed upon her arm; and a quantity of rich dark hair which had escaped from beneath the painted handkerchief that was twisted about her head, lay scattered over the pillow. She was deadly pale, but her eyebrows and the long silken lashes which fringed her closed eyes were intensely black, and relieved the pallor of her complexion; while her fine and delicate features completed as lovely a face as ever the gaze of man had lingered on. At times a shuddering spasm contracted for an instant the muscles of her countenance—the terrors of the day had tinged her midnight dreams: and at times she smiled a fleeting smile, which was succeeded by a sigh, as if, even in sleep, the memory of past happiness was clouded by a pang.
But her slumber was not destined to be of long continuance; for the principal individual of the party, suddenly bending over her, grasped her arm, and exclaimed, “Wake, Fatma, wake; we have tidings for you!”
The unhappy woman started, and looked up; and then hurriedly concealing her face in the coverlets, she gasped out, “Mashallah! What means this? What would you with me that you steal thus upon me in the night? Am I not a Turkish woman? And am I not uncovered?”
“Fear nothing, Hanoum;” pursued the official; “we have tidings for you which we would not delay.”
“God is great!” shrieked the guilty one, raising herself upon her pillows. “You have pardoned him—”
But the generous, self-forgetting prophecy was false. In the energy of her sudden hope she had sprang into a sitting posture; and ere the words had left her lips, the fatal bowstring was about her throat.
It was the horror of a moment—Two of the executioners flung themselves upon her, and held her down—a couple more grasped her hands—a heavy knee pressed down her heaving chest—there was a low gurgling sound, hushed as soon as it was heard—a frightful spasm which almost hurled the strong men from above the convulsed frame—and all was over!
At day-dawn on the morrow, the young Greek was led from his prison. For several days he had refused food, and he was scarcely able to drag his fainting limbs along the uneven streets. Two men supported him, and at length he reached the termination of his painful pilgrimage. For a moment he stood rooted to the earth; he gasped for breath—he tore away his turban—and clenched his hands until the blood sprang beneath the nails. She whom he had loved was before him—her once fair face was swollen and livid, and exposed to the profane gaze of a countless multitude. She was before him—and the handkerchief from which she was suspended, beside the spot marked out for himself, was one which he had given her in an hour of passion, when they looked not to perish thus!
I have pursued the tale until I am heart-sick, and can follow it up no further. Yet, revolting as it is, it nevertheless affords a proof of that which I have already adduced elsewhere; that even in their severity the Turks are merciful to their women; and carefully shield them from the shame, even when they cannot exempt them from the suffering, of their own vices.