“I will try, for your sake, Ashweesha,” said Achmet, starting up; “I have little hope, it is true, for my enemies are too strong for me, but it were cowardly to fail for want of an effort. Allah bless thee, my wife!”
He kissed her, and immediately made for the staircase that led to the terrace.
Gaining the roof, he looked over the parapet, and the first glance was enough to convince him that he must bid adieu to hope. The palace was completely surrounded by the insurgents, who set up a fierce shout on observing him, and fired a volley of balls from many directions, all of which, however, passed harmlessly over his head.
“Thou seest, Ashweesha,” he said, with a sad smile, as the Sultana followed him to the terrace, “my time has come. It is fate. Allah has willed it so—there is therefore no possibility of averting it.”
“Say not so,” cried Ashweesha earnestly; “the terrace of Jacob is easily gained; once there you can descend to some of the back streets where no one looks for you.”
“I will make the attempt,” said the Dey, sternly casting his eyes over the city.
It was a sight that might well lull him with sad thoughts, for the roofs or terraces everywhere were covered with affrighted women—the houses of the Jews being especially distinguishable by the frantic manner in which the Jewesses wrung their hands, and otherwise displayed their grief and alarm.
A plank thrown from the parapet of his palace to that of the nearest house enabled Achmet to escape from those of his enemies who had gained an entrance below, but it was only a momentary respite; while they were searching for another plank to enable them to follow him, he attempted to cross over to the house of the Jew above mentioned. He was at once observed, on the frail bridge that supported him, and a shout of anger rose from the populace like a hoarse roar.
During the whole time in which the Dey was thus endeavouring to escape, his proud spirit fought against him, urging him to turn and dare his foes to do their worst. At the moment when their roar burst upon his ear, all desire to escape seemed to vanish. He stopped suddenly, drew himself up with his wonted look of dignified composure, and from his perilous and elevated position looked down almost reproachfully on those who had been wont to bow at his footstool.
The act was followed by another roar. A hundred muskets belched forth their deadly fire, and Achmet Dey fell headlong into the street.