The twang of the rude instrument awoke the pacha, who had been fast asleep for some time.

  “Is it finished, Mustapha?” said he, rubbing his eyes.

  “Yes, your highness; and the destiny foretold was truly accomplished.”

  “Bismillah! but I’m glad of it. Before he had whined ten minutes, I foretold that I should go to sleep. My destiny has also been accomplished.”

  “Will your highness foretell the destiny of this dog with two tails?”

  “Two tails! that reminds me that we have only had one out of him as yet. Let’s have him again to-morrow, and have another. At all events, we shall have a good nap. God is great.”

  Chapter XX

  “Mustapha,” said the pacha, “I feel as the caliph Haroun Alraschid, in the tale of Yussuf, related by Menouni, full of care; my soul is weary — my heart is burnt as roast meat.”

  Mustapha, who had wit enough to perceive that he was to act the part of Giaffar, the vizier, immediately replied, “O pacha! great and manifold are the cares of state. If thy humble slave may be permitted to advise, thou wilt call in the Chinese dog with two tails, who hath as yet repeated but one of his tales.”

  “Not so,” replied the pacha; “I am weary of his eternal ti-tum, tilly-lilly, which yet ringeth in mine ears. What else canst thou propose?”

  “Alem penah! refuge of the world, wilt thou be pleased to order out thy troops, and witness the exercise of djireed? The moon is high in the heavens, and it is light as day.”

  “Not so,” replied the pacha; “I am tired of war and all that appertains to it. Let the troops sleep in peace.”

  “Then, O pacha! will you permit your slave to send for some bottles of the fire-water of the Giaour, that we may drink and smoke until we are elevated to the seven heavens?”

  “Nay, good vizier, that is as a last resource, for it is forbidden by the laws of the Prophet. Think once more, and thou must have no more brains than a water-melon, if this time thou proposest not that which will give me ease.”

  “Thy slave lives but to hear, and hears but to obey,” replied Mustapha. “Then will it please my lord to disguise himself, and walk through the streets of Cairo; the moon is bright, and the hyena prowls not now, but mingles his howlings with those of the jackal afar off.”

  “Your face is whitened, Mustapha, and it pleaseth us. Let the disguises be prepared, and we will sally forth.”

  In a short time the disguises were ready, the vizier taking care that they should be those of Armenian merchants, knowing that the pacha would be pleased with the similarity to those worn by the great Alraschid; two black slaves, with their swords, followed the pacha and his vizier at a short distance. The streets were quite empty, and they met with nothing living except here and there a dog preying on the garbage and offal, who snapped and snarled as they passed by. The night promised nothing of adventure, and the pacha was in no very good humour, when Mustapha perceived a light through the chinks of a closed window in a small hovel, and heard the sound of a voice. He peeped through, the pacha standing by his side. After a few seconds the vizier made signs to the pacha to look in. The pacha was obliged to strain his fat body to its utmost altitude, standing on the tips of his toes to enable his eyes to reach the cranny. The interior of the hovel was without furniture, a chest in the centre of the mud floor appeared to serve as table and repository of everything in it, for the walls were bare. At the fireplace, in which were a few embers, crouched an old woman, a personification of age, poverty, and starvation. She was warming her shrivelled hands over the embers, and occasionally passed one of her hands along her bony arm, saying, “Yes, the time has been — the time has been.”

  “What can she mean,” said the pacha to Mustapha, “by ‘the time has been’?”

  “It requires explanation,” replied the vizier; “this is certain, that it must mean something.”

  “Thou hast said well, Mustapha; let us knock, and obtain admittance.”

  Mustapha knocked at the door of the hovel.

  “There’s nothing to steal, so you may as well go,” screamed the old woman; “but,” continued she, talking to herself, “the time has been — the time has been.”

  The pacha desired Mustapha to knock louder. Mustapha applied the hilt of his dagger, and thumped against the door.

  “Ay — ay — you may venture to knock now, the sultan’s slippers are not at the door,” said the old woman: “but,” continued she, as before, “the time has been — the time has been.”

  “Sultan’s slippers! and time has been!” cried the pacha. “What does the old hag mean? Knock again, Mustapha.”

  Mustapha reiterated his blows.”

  “Ay — knock — knock — my door is like my mouth; I open it when I choose, and I keep it shut when I choose, as once was well known. The time has been — the time has been.”

  “We have been a long time standing here, and I am tired of waiting; so, Mustapha, I think the time is come to kick the door open. Let it be done.”

  Whereupon Mustapha put his foot to the door, but it resisted his efforts. “Let me assist,” said the pacha, and retreated a few paces; he and Mustapha backed against the door with all their force. It flew open, and they rolled together on the floor of the hovel. The old woman screamed, and then, jumping on the body of the pacha, caught him by the throat, crying, “Thieves; murder!” Mustapha hastened to the assistance of his master, as did the two black slaves, when they heard the cries, and with some difficulty the talons of the old Jezebel were disengaged from the throat of the pacha, who, in his wrath, would have immediately sacrificed her. “Lahnet be Shitan! Curses on the devil!” exclaimed the pacha; “but this is pretty treatment for a pacha.”

  “Knowest thou, vile wretch, that thou hast taken by the throat, and nearly strangled, the Lord of Life — the pacha himself,” said Mustapha.

  “Well,” replied the old woman, coolly, “the time has been — the time has been.”

  “What meanest thou, cursed hag, that ‘the time has been’?”

  “I mean that the time has been, when I have had more than one pacha strangled. Yes,” continued she squatting down on the floor, and muttering, “the time has been.”

  The pacha’s rage was now a little appeased. “Mustapha,” said the pacha, “let this old woman be carefully guarded; to-morrow afternoon we will understand the meaning of those strange words, ‘the time has been.’ Depend upon it, thereby hangs a good story; we will have that first — and then,” whispered the pacha, “her head off afterwards.”

  The old woman, hearing the order to take her into custody, again repeated. “Ah, very well — the time has been.” The slaves laid hold of her; but she defended herself so vigorously with her teeth and nails, that they were under the necessity of gagging her, and tying her hand and foot. They then hoisted her on their shoulders, and marched off with her to the palace, followed by Mustapha and the pacha, the latter quite delighted with his adventure. When the divan of the ensuing day had closed, the old woman was ordered to be brought into the presence of the pacha; and as she refused to walk, she was brought on the shoulders of four of the guards, and laid on the floor of the council-chamber. “How dare you rebel against the sublime commands?” inquired Mustapha with severity.

  “How dare I rebel!” cried the old woman with a shrill voice. “Why, what right has the pacha to drag me from my poor hovel; and what can he want with an old woman like me? It’s not for his harem, I presume.”

  At this remark the pacha and Mustapha could not help laughing; having recovered his gravity, Mustapha observed, “One would imagine, old carrion that thou art, that the idea of such a punishment as the bastinado had never entered your mind.”

  “There you are mistaken, Mr Vizier, for I have suffered both the bastinado and the bowstring.”

  “And the bowstring! Holy Prophet! what a lying old hag!” exclaimed the pacha.

  “No lie, pacha, no lie!” screamed the old woman in her wrath. “I have said it — and the bowstring. Yes, the time has been, when I was young and beautiful; and do you know why I suffered? I’ll tell you — because I would not hold my tongue — and do you think that I will now that I’m an old piece of carrion? Yes — yes — the time has been.”

  “Fortunately, then,” replied Mustapha, “you are not required by the pacha to hold your tongue. You are required to do the very contrary, which is, to speak.”

  “And do you know why I received the bowstring?” screamed the old hag. “I’ll tell you — because I would not speak; and I do not intend so to do now, since I find that you wish that I should.”

  “Then it appears,” said the pacha, taking the pipe out of his mouth, “that the bastinado was as ill-managed as the bowstring. We do these things better at Cairo. Hear me, old mother of Shitan! I wish to know what you mean by that expression which is ever in your mouth— ‘time has been.’”

  “It means a great deal pacha, for it refers to my life — you want the story.”

  “Exactly,” replied Mustapha, “so begin.”

  “You must pay me for it — it is worth twenty pieces of gold.”

  “Do you presume to make conditions with his sublime highness the pacha?” exclaimed Mustapha. “Why, thou mother of Afrits and Ghouls, if thou commencest not immediately, thy carcass shall be thrown over the walls for the wild dogs to smell at, and turn away from in disgust.”

  “Vizier, I have lived long enough to trust nobody. My price is twenty pieces of gold counted out in this shrivelled hand before I begin; and without they are paid down — not one word.” And the old beldam folded her arms, and looked the pacha boldly in the face.

  “God is great!” exclaimed the pacha. “We shall see.” At his well-known signal the executioner made his appearance, and holding up the few scattered gray hairs which still remained upon her head, he raised his scimitar, awaiting the nod which was to be succeeded by the fatal blow.

  “Strike, pacha, strike!” cried the old woman, scornfully. “I shall only lose a life of which I have long been weary; but you will lose a story of wonder, which you are so anxious to obtain. Strike — for the last time, I say, ‘Time has been’ — before time shall be no more!”

  “That is true, Mustapha,” observed the pacha. “I forgot the story. What an obstinate old devil; but I must hear the story.”

  “If it appears good to your absolute wisdom,” said Mustapha, in a low voice, “would it not be better to count down to this avaricious old hag the twenty pieces of gold which she demands? When her story is ended, it will be easy to take them from her, and her head from her shoulders. Thus will be satisfied the demands of the old woman, and the demands of justice.”

  “Wallah Thaib! it is well said, by Allah! Your words are as pearls.

  Count out the money, Mustapha.”

  “His highness the pacha has been pleased, in consideration of the fear and trembling with which you have entered his presence, to order that the sum which you require shall be paid down,” said Mustapha, pulling out his purse from his girdle. “Murakkas, you are dismissed,” continued the vizier to the executioner, who let go the old woman, and disappeared. Mustapha counted out the twenty pieces of gold, and shoved them towards the old woman, who, after some demur, as if imagining that they ought to have been brought to her, got up and took possession of them. She counted them over, and returned one piece as being of light weight. Mustapha, with a grimace, but without speaking, exchanged it for another.

  “By the beard of the Prophet!” muttered the pacha— “but never mind.”

  The old woman took out a piece of dirty rag, wrapped up the gold pieces, and placing them in her vest, smoothed down her sordid garments, and then commenced as follows: —

  “Pacha, I have not always lived in a hovel. These eyes were not always bleared and dim, nor this skin wrinkled and discoloured. I have not always been covered with these filthy rags — nor have I always wanted or coveted the gold which you have just now bestowed on me. I have lived in palaces — I have commanded there. I have been robed in gold — I have been covered with jewels. I have dispensed life and death — I have given away provinces. Pachas have trembled at my frown — have received by my orders the bowstring — for at one time I was the favourite of the grand sultan. Time has been.”

  “It must have been a long time ago, then,” observed the pacha.

  “That is true,” replied the old woman; “but I will now narrate my adventures.”

  STORY OF THE OLD WOMAN.

  I was born in Georgia, where, as your highness knows, the women are reckoned to be more beautiful than in any other country, except indeed Circassia; but in my opinion, the Circassian women are much too tall, and on too large a scale, to compete with us; and I may safely venture my opinion, as I have had an opportunity of comparing many hundreds of the finest specimens of both countries. My father and mother, although not rich, were in easy circumstances; my father had been a janissary in the sultan’s immediate employ, and after he had collected some property, he returned to his own country, where he purchased some land, and married. I had but one brother, who was three years older than myself, and one of the handsomest youths in the country. He was disfigured a little by a scarlet stain on his neck, somewhat in shape resembling a bunch of grapes, and which our national dress would not permit him to conceal. My father, intending that he should serve the sultan, brought him up to a perfect knowledge of every martial exercise. Even at fourteen years old, few could compete with him in the use of the bow, and throwing the djireed, and as a horseman he was perfect. As for me, I was, I am certain, intended for the sultan’s seraglio, for as a child I was beautiful as a houri. My father was a man who would not scruple to part with his children for gold, provided he obtained his price. I was considered, and I believe that I was, the most beautiful girl in the country, and every care was taken that I should not injure my appearance or hurt my complexion by domestic labour or exposure. I was not permitted to assist my mother, who, induced by my father’s orders, waited upon me. I was indulged in every whim, and I grew up as selfish and capricious as I was beautiful. Smile not, pacha — time has been.

  One day, when I was about fourteen years old, I was sitting at the porch, when a large body of Turkish cavalry suddenly made their appearance from a wood close to the house, and surrounded it. They evidently came for me, for they demanded me by name, threatening to burn the house down to the ground, if I was not immediately delivered up. Our house, which was situated near the confines of the country, had been constructed for defence; and my father, expecting assistance from his neighbours, refused to acquiesce in their terms. The assault was made, my father and mother, with all their household, were murdered, my brother severely wounded, the house plundered, and burnt to the outside walls. I was, of course, a prisoner as well as my brother. He was tied, wounded as he was, upon one horse, and I upon another, and in a few hours the party had regained the frontiers. A young man, handsome as an angel, was the leader of the band, and I soon perceived that all his thoughts and attentions, were directed to me. He watched me with the greatest solicitude when we halted, procured me every comfort, and was always hovering about my presence. From the discourse of the soldiers I discovered that he was the only son of the grand vizier at Stamboul. He had heard of my beauty, had seen me, and offered a large sum to my father, who had refused, as his ambition was, that I should belong to the sultan — in consequence I had been carried off by force. I could have loved the beautiful youth, although he had murdered my father and mother, but it was the taking me by force which steeled my heart, and I vowed that I never would listen to his addresses, although I was so completely in his power. During the time that I had been in his possession I had never spoken one word, and it came into my head that I would pretend to be dumb. In three weeks we arrived at Constantinople. Since I quitted the country I never had seen my brother, his wound was too severe to allow him to travel with the same rapidity, and it was not until years afterwards that I knew what had become of him. I was taken to Osman Ali’s house, and allowed a few days’ repose from the fatigue of the journey; after which, as I was still but a child, I was ordered to be instructed in music, dancing, singing, and every other accomplishment considered necessary for the ladies of a harem. But I adhered to my resolution, every method to induce me to speak was tried in vain; even blows, torture from pinching, and other means were resorted to, but would not induce me to swerve from my resolution; at last they concluded that I was either born dumb, or had become so from fright at the time that the attack and slaughter of my family took place. I was eighteen months in the harem of Osman Ali, and never spoke one word.

  * * * * *

  “Mashallah! but this is wonderful!” exclaimed the pacha— “a woman hold her tongue for eighteen months! Who is to believe this?”

  “Not at all wonderful!” replied the old woman, “when you recollect that she was required to speak.”

  * * * * *

  Once and once only, did I nearly break through my resolution. Two of the principal favourites were conversing in my presence.

  “I cannot imagine,” said one, “what Ali can see in this little minx to be so infatuated with her. She is very ugly — her mouth is large — her teeth are yellow — and her eyes not only have no expression, but look different ways. She has one shoulder higher than the other, and worse than all, being dumb, cannot be taught anything but dancing, which only shows her ugly broad feet.”

  “That is all true,” replied the other. “If I was Ali, I should employ her as a common slave; she is fit for nothing but to roll up and beat carpets, boil rice, and prepare our coffee. A little of the slipper on her mouth would soon bring her to her senses.”

  I must own that I was near breaking through my resolution, that I might have indulged my revenge, and had not the door suddenly opened, I should have proved to them that I could have spoken to some purpose, for never would I have ceased, until they had both been sewn up in sacks, and cast into the Bosphorus. But I restrained myself, although my cheeks burned with rage, and I more than once put my hand to my jewelled dagger.