“Jacob.”
“Ho! My name is Sanda Pasha. You have hear of me before?”
“Yes, on board the Turkish monitor.”
“Just so; but before zat, I mean,” said the Pasha, with a keen glance.
Lancey was a bold and an honest man. He would not condescend to prevaricate.
“I’m wery sorry, your—your Pashaship, but, to tell the plain truth, I never did ’ear of you before that.”
“Well, zat matters not’ing. I do go now to sup vid von friend, Hamed Pasha he is called. You go vid me. Go, get ready.”
Poor Lancey opened his eyes in amazement, and began to stammer something about having nothing to get ready with, and a mistake being made, but the Pasha cut him short with another “Go!” so imperative that he was fain to obey promptly.
Having no change of raiment, the perplexed man did his best by washing his face and hands, and giving his hair and clothes an extra brush, to make himself more fit for refined society. On being called to rejoin the Pasha, he began to apologise for the style of his dress, but the peremptory despot cut him short by leading the way to his carriage, in which they were driven to the konak or palace of Hamed Pasha.
They were shown into a richly-furnished apartment where Hamed was seated on a divan, with several friends, smoking and sipping brandy and water, for many of these eminent followers of the Prophet pay about as little regard to the Prophet’s rules as they do to the laws of European society.