“That,” replied Achmet, “would have little power to please if the jewels were not numerous and costly. But happily our treasury can afford it, although we have not been very successful in war of late.”
He looked at the consul with a sly smile as he spoke, but the latter deemed it wise to be lost in admiration of some of the jewels in question.
After examining the “present,” the consul retired, and Achmet went to his private apartments to enjoy a cup of coffee and a pipe.
The room in which he sat was similar to that already described as being the reception-room of the bridal party, only the decorations were if possible more elaborate and sumptuous. Here, seated on rich cushions, with, not his most beautiful, but his wisest wife beside him, Achmet—once a petty officer of janissaries—gave himself up to the enjoyment of the hour. Christian slaves—once the happy butterflies of European and other lands—attended on him, filled his pipe, brought him hot coffee, and watched his every movement. They were richly dressed, more richly and gaily, perchance, than they had ever been in the days of freedom, when they had been wont to chat and laugh with careless hilarity. But they were mute enough now. A few of them had tasted the bastinado and been tamed; most of them had been wise enough to tame themselves. If Shakespeare had been a Turk he would probably have written a very different version of the Taming of the Shrew!
When coffee was finished, the Dey ordered the attendants to withdraw, and then settling himself comfortably on the cushions, and puffing two white streams of smoke slowly through his nose, in order to gather the fullest enjoyment therefrom, he thus addressed himself to his better-proportion—we had almost said “half,” but forgot for the moment that there were several Sultanas!
“Ashweesha, thou art a wise woman. I might almost style thee my guardian angel, for not only hast thou often guided me on the right road, but sometimes thou hast prevented me from straying into the wrong.”
Ashweesha, who was a sweet and passably good-looking woman of about thirty, raised her large dark eyes to the face of Achmet with a look of gratitude, but did not reply. Indeed, her husband did not seem to expect an answer, for he continued to smoke for some time in silence, with his eyes fixed abstractedly on a tame gazelle—the kitten of the harem—which tried to attract his attention.
“Thou art sad, or anxious, to-night,” said Ashweesha, at length breaking silence.
“Both sad and anxious,” replied the Dey slowly. “My position is indeed one of power, but not of comfort or safety.”
A shade rested for a moment like a flitting cloud on the face of Ashweesha. Gladly would she have exchanged her high estate, with all its costly and gorgeous array, for a life of humble toil accompanied with peace and security—for she was of gentle nature—but this was denied her.