“Nothing,” said the young man, with his eyes cast down, “but the not being assisted at my last moments by a priest of my religion.”
Djezzar appeared to reflect; a slight smile then contracted his lips.
“If thy wishes go no farther,” he said, “they shall be gratified.”
The Mangrebian reappeared at his call. A few moments afterward an old man, with a bald head, a long white beard, and a severe countenance, entered. He trembled violently at the sight of the pacha, as if he thought his last hour was come.
He was a poor Maronite monk, sent recently by the patriarch of Mount Libanus to replace the superior of the convent of Perkinik, who was dead. The pacha had, whilst passing on that day through this Catholic village, in the environs of Shivas, wished to make an exaction on this miserable convent, in which a few monks, covered with rags, lived by the labor of their hands, in the midst of a population as miserable as themselves. Djezzar, unable to extort the money which they had not, had carried off their superior with him, to detain him as a hostage until the sum demanded was paid.
“Kaffer,” he said to him, “thou hast refused to pay the taxes of Miri and Karadj.”
“The Christians of Libanus are exempt from them since the capitulation of the holy King Louis,” replied the unfortunate man, whose voice betrayed a violent emotion. “The Vice Roy Mehemet Ali regarded us as exempt.”
“To hell with the old rascal!”
“But the sultans themselves have recognized this law, your highness.”
“There is no law here but my will,” replied the pacha.