There were present, besides Mustafa, Rezlán Pasha, Ajas Beg, Rifát Aga, Kara Ogli the Kapudan Pasha, and many more who promised themselves a long life.
The Grand Seignior had always made a particular favourite of Feriz, and he now addressed him in a gentle, fatherly voice.
"My dear son, go back home; my viziers are preparing to subdue the world with unconquerable armies. Go with them, in the din of battle thou wilt find again thy heroic heart and be cured of thy sickness."
An extraordinary smile passed across the face of Feriz, he waved aside the idea with his hand and bent his head forwards, which is a way the Turks have of expressing decided negation.
"This war cannot be a triumphant war, for men are the cause thereof. Allah will bring it to nought. Ye draw the sword at the invitation of murderers, deceivers, and traitors. I have broken the hilt of my own sword in order that I may not draw it forth. They have killed those whom I love, how can I fight in that army which was formed for them who were the occasion of the ruin of my beloved?"
At this thought the blood flew to the youth's face, the spirit of madness flamed up in his eyes, he rose to his full height before the Sultan, and he cried with a loud, audacious voice:
"Thou wilt lose the war for which thou dost now prepare, for thy viziers are incapable, thy soldiers are cowards, thy allies are traitors, thy wise men are fools, thy priests are hypocrites, and thou thyself art an oath-breaker."
Then, as if he were suddenly sorry of what he had said to the Sultan, he bent humbly over him and taking hold of the edge of his garment raised it up and kissed it—and then, regarding him with genuine sympathy, murmured softly:
"Poor Sultan!—so young, so young—and yet thou must die."
And thereupon, with hanging head, he turned away and prepared to go out. None stayed him.