"Why did you put them in this lonely place?" asked Kucsuk Pasha; "is there not some other prison in the town?"
"Don't blame me, sir; my orders were to lock the lady up securely, apart from her child, and in this tower are two adjacent chambers with a common window, and in one of them I have put the mother and in the other the child. I knew that they would not mind if they could speak to each other through the window, and press each other's hands, and even kiss each other through the bars."
"Thou art a true man, my good old fellow," said Kucsuk Pasha, patting the commandant's shoulder; while Feriz Beg warmly pressed his hand.
"Thou wouldst put me into just such another dungeon, eh?" he asked.
"There would be no need of that, good Feriz Beg; you should dwell in my apartments."
"But I would not have it so," said the youth, thinking with glowing cheeks of the fair Aranka who would thus be his next-door neighbour and fellow-prisoner.
At last the iron door of the prison was opened, the jailor remained outside, and the two Osmanlis entered. By the side of a rude oak table was sitting a lady in deep mourning in front of the narrow window, reading aloud from a large Bible with silver clasps; her children at the window of the other dungeon were listening devoutly to the Word of God.
When the men entered the woman started and looked up; the dim ray of light coming through the narrow window made her face appear still paler than it used to be; she looked up seriously, sadly—sorrow had lent a gentle gravity to the face that used to be so bright and gay.
Kucsuk Pasha approached, and taking the lady's soft transparent hand in his own, briefly introduced himself.
"I am Kucsuk Pasha, thy husband's most faithful friend in this world after thyself."