Harassed as he was, Apafi could not help laughing aloud.
"Why, here there is not a house large enough to hold thirty men," cried he energetically.
"What! is there not the church?" interrupted the Pasha. "If that house be sufficiently fine for the honour of God, I suppose it will do to honour men in!"
Apafi saw no further escape.
"Can you write?" asked the Pasha.
"Yes, I can do that," replied Apafi, sighing deeply.
"Very well, for I cannot. So sit down and issue the writs for a Diet."
A slave then brought in a writing-table, a scroll of parchment, and an inkhorn. Apafi sat down like a lamb about to be slaughtered, and began with a caligraphic flourish so large that the Turk sprang up in affright, and asked what it meant.
"It is a W," answered Apafi.
"You won't leave any room for the remaining letters."