“So the old woman told you that she saw the young vagabond safe within the door of the harem, did she?”
“It is even so, my lord, and she heard the bolts of the door shut upon him by the bowàb” [porter].
“Allah be praised!” said the Bey, with a grim smile; “that upstart will not cross my path again—he will never leave that house alive. Be on your guard, Ferraj, and warn that old gossip to put a key on her tongue; for if it were to be known that you or she had a hand in this matter, your feet would be beat into a pudding, and she would sup with the fishes of the Nile.”
Leaving this worthy vice-governor to continue the preparations for his journey, let us return to our hero, whom we have most unkindly left swimming down the river on a cold November night. His course was rapid enough, and ere long he saw some lights on the right bank which he knew to mark a café where he often smoked his evening pipe, and which was not very far from Delì Pasha’s house: there he landed, and having wrung the water from his clothes, walked on towards the café, which he found occupied by only two or three drowsy smokers, the night being now far advanced.
Making his way into the host’s room, with whom he was well acquainted, he asked him to afford him lodging for the night, and to lend him a dry blanket or two, explaining his present appearance by saying that he had accidentally fallen into the water.
The host, with whom Hassan was a favourite, from his quiet habits and from his always paying ready money for his coffee and pipe, willingly granted his request, and ordered a fire to be lighted, at which our hero’s clothes were hung that they might be dry by daylight. Hassan himself, after drinking a cup of hot coffee, lay down on the floor in his blanket, and in a few minutes was in a sleep as profound as if he had been reposing on the softest bed in Cairo. Rising at the first grey of dawn, and making the best toilet that the circumstances admitted, he proceeded to Delì Pasha’s house before any of the servants were loitering about the door, and reached his own room unobserved.
Very few hours elapsed before he was summoned to the presence of his chief, whom he found in one of the private apartments, and before him stood a woman’s figure, in whom, although she dropped her veil over her face on his entrance, he recognised Fatimeh Khanum, the Kiahia, or governess of the harem. She was about to retire, but the Pasha stopped her, saying, “It is not necessary that you should go; I have but a few words to say to Hassan, and they contain no secrets.”
The Khanum withdrew a few steps aside, while the Pasha proceeded to inform Hassan that the Viceroy had suddenly arrived at Shoobra, and as it was necessary that a messenger should be sent to compliment his Highness on his arrival and inquire after his health, it would be a good opportunity for Hassan to take the message, and also to present the Arab mare Nebleh.
“I have written a letter,” he added with a smile, “which you will also bear, and which will inform our lord how I came to offer him this present.”
“May your bounties always increase,” replied Hassan; “on my head be it to obey your orders, but if I might be bold enough to make an observation——” here he hesitated, and cast his eyes aside at the Khanum, as if he would rather communicate what he had to say to his lord’s ear alone.