“I am one,” cried the young soldier, with a whirl of his gleaming blade so close to the man’s nose that he staggered back in alarm—“I am one who knows how to fulfil his duty. Perchance I may be one who shall even presume some day to mount the throne when Hamet Dey is tired of it—in which case I know of a bully whose head shall grace the highest spike on Bab-Azoun!”
The quiet smile with which the latter part of this speech was delivered, and the determined air of the youth, combined to make the soldiers laugh, so that the bully felt himself under the necessity of retiring.
Sheathing his sword with a business-like air, and rudely pushing his prisoner into the house, whither Bacri had already retired, the young soldier entered and shut the door.
“Lucien!” exclaimed Bacri in surprise, as he grasped the hand of the young janissary, “thou hast managed this business well, considering that thou art no Turk. How didst thou come to think of it?”
“I should never have thought of it, had not my worthy father suggested the idea,” replied Lucien, with a smile, as he removed the rope from the neck of his sire.—“Forgive me, father, if I have played my part too roughly—”
“Too roughly!” echoed the bluff merchant, with a laugh; “why, boy, dost think that thine old father has lost all his youthful vigour? I trow not.—You see, Signor Bacri, we have had information of what was impending for some days past, and although we could do nothing to avert the catastrophe, we thought it possible that we might manage to avoid the massacre at the palace. Knowing from report that the janissaries ran riot at such times, and being aware that my son Lucien—who is a noted linguist, Signor Bacri—spoke their language almost as well as a native, I suggested that he should procure a uniform and personate a janissary, while I should act the part of a runaway slave. Being a favourite with poor Achmet, as you know, Lucien had much influence among the domestics, and easily procured the disguise. The moment the insurrection took place we fled from the palace, and, as you see, here we are!”
“But why came you hither?” asked Bacri, with a troubled look.
“To whom else could we flee for shelter?” returned Lucien. “You are the only friend we have in the city—except, indeed, the Padre Giovanni, who has no power to save us.”
“Alas!” returned the Jew, leading his friends into the skiffa, and seating himself on the edge of the fountain that played there, “you lean on a broken reed. My power is not sufficient to protect myself. Even now the soldiers might have taken my life, and robbed my house with impunity, had it not been for your courage, Lucien. My predecessor was shot in cold blood by a man who for the murder was only transported. If he had slain the poorest Turk, or even a Moor, he would have been strangled. We are a despised as well as persecuted race, and our influence or power to protect you is very small. Indeed, if it were known that I had given you shelter, my life would be forfeited, as well as yours. I have already placed it in great jeopardy in order to save Mariano—”
“Mariano!” exclaimed Francisco, turning an anxious gaze on the Jew; “is he, then, in danger?”