"His rage demands blood, and the blood of a great man, too. Which of us? That is all one, but a great man must die. If I cannot sacrifice someone in my place I shall perish myself, but there are men of equal value to myself from whom I can choose. There are two especially—Kucsuk and his son. They began the battle; if they had not begun it, there would have been no battle; and if there had been no battle, there would have been no disaster. They are Death's sons already. The third is the Prince of Moldavia. He was the first to fly from the fight; he had a secret understanding with the Christians. He is a son of Death also. I can throw in the Prince of Transylvania also, because he kept away from the battle altogether and was late with his tribute. Had he sent it sooner, we should have had money; and if we had had money, we should have been able to have bought hay; and if we had had hay the soldiers would not have hastened on the battle and so lost it. He also is a son of Death, therefore. Go thou into Transylvania and bring him hither to me."
Azrael listened to all this with great attention. Yffim Beg regarded her with a radiant countenance, as much as to say: "You see our heads won't ache yet!"
The odalisk, however, trembled no longer; she pressed her lips tightly together, and as if she was quite certain of what she was about to do, she pressed her sweetly smiling face close to that of the Vizier, and hanging on his arms, whispered to him:
"O Hassan, how my soul would rejoice if I could see flow the blood of thine enemies."
Hassan sat the damsel on his knees, and his lips sported with her twining tresses.
Yffim Beg was in such a mighty good humour at being commissioned by Hassan to go as ambassador to the Prince of Transylvania, and so blindly exalted by such a mark of confidence, that he fancied he could well afford to torment Azrael a little.
"Whilst thou wert away, my master," said he, "thy damsel implored me to grant her a favour, which I dare not do without first asking thy permission."
Azrael regarded the smiling Beg with sparkling eyes, anxiously awaiting what he would be bold enough to betray.
"What was it?—speak, Yffim Beg," remarked Hassan wildly.
"Thou and the other Pashas are about to condemn a youth to death—young Feriz Beg, I mean."