The Slaves of the Padishah

by Mór Jókai

"Azrael," said Hassan meekly, "be not angry with me, at least not now."

"Thou hast never suspected me, then?"

"Have I not always loved thee? If even thou didst want my life would I not trust it with thee?"

"Then wander not about the room so. Go and rest!"

"Rest to-night? The Messenger of Death stands before the door."

"What care I about the Messenger of Death? I know when I am going to die! And till then I will not lower my eyes before Death."

"And when will Hassan die?" asked the Vizier, seizing the hand of his favourite and watching eagerly for her answer with parted lips.

"Thou wilt survive me a day and no longer," said Azrael. There was a tremulousness in the intonation of her voice. She felt that what she said was true.

The tears trickled from Hassan's face, and he covered it with his hands.

Then the imbecile old man kissed the robe of the odalisk again and again, and folding her in his ardent embrace, actually sobbed over her. And he kept on babbling: