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panion sickness wrinkle the brow and sear the
cheek more even than age and infirmity. There
was a day when I might not have brooked your
doubts and denial of my name; but I have
learned to be patient, and since you refuse to
recognise me, I leave your door, and will give
you no farther annoyance."

*« Stop, Effendi !'' cried the old man ; " if
indeed you be the person you say you are, and
your knowledge of me and my family now as-
sures me that you are, pardon me, I pray you,

N 5


for not knowing you at first ; but indeed you
are altered, very much altered, Effendi: toil
and travel, I suppose, have withered the bloom
of youth, but comfort and repose, if it please
God, will again revive it. But step into the
house, Effendi ; small as it is, the son of Miche-
laki is welcome to my dwelling, and fortunate
is the accident which has given his shadow to
my threshold."

Mourad followed the Greek to his apart-
ment ; and when they were seated, he began
to inquire after the different people he had
known in the village. It was only ten years
since he had left it, and to his astonishment
he heard that hardly one of those he had been
acquainted with were still remaining there.

The iron grasp of despotism had brought
many to ruin ; the hope of bettering their for-
tunes had induced some to fix their abode else-
where, but death had removed the greatest
number to the everlasting home of all. Yus-
suf, he was informed, had quitted Smyrna some
years ago, and was established in Stamboul.
He had quarrelled with his father-in-law, and
had been separated from his wife ; his friends


had contrived, however, to prevail on the father-
in-law to use his interest to procure for him
the office of lieutenant to the chief executioner
in Stamboul.

This information surprised Mourad a good
deal, and disconcerted him not a little ; he was
too well acquainted with the malignity of Yus-
suf 's disposition not to see the danger of being
discovered by him. The plunder of the khan,
however remote the period, would furnish suffi-
cient matter for his enemy to work out his

But Mourad had to listen to intelligence of a
more appalling nature than any which had only
the apprehension of peril for its terror. He
had to hear the history of his unfortunate mo-
ther, of whose fate he had hitherto been in ig-
norance; and while the Greek related the par-
ticulars of her sad story, the horror of the
wretched listener beggared all description.
Amazement was depicted on every feature ; he
sat motionless on the divan ; his hands clasped
over his head, his staring eyeballs riveted on
the speaker, and his bloodless lips unconsciously


" It was only after your departure," said the
Greek, " that any thing certain was known of
the fate of Emineh. The ruins of Chiblak liad
been long said to be the haunt of gouls and
spectres, and the bravest of the soldiers of the
Aga trembled to be overtaken by nightfall in
their vicinity. Hundreds of people asserted
that even before dusk a supernatural being had
been seen issuing from the tombs, and gliding
amongst the broken columns, shrieking a ter-
rific song, and tearing up the mound with her
lank fingers.

" I disbelieved the story ; but one night that
I had occasion to pass through the ruins, I
beheld the spectre. The moon was shining
strongly on the features, which I shuddered
at beholding ; haggard as they were, and pale
and ghastly as those of an emaciated corpse, I
thought I knew them. Wild as the accents which
issued from her lips, and broken as the voice
which gave vent to her distraction, I fancied 1
had heard the sound before. My knees tot-
tered under me, while I gazed on the wretch-
ed being ; I saw her throw ashes on her bead,


and pile the earth over a stone, till it assumed
the size and shape of the surrounding graves,
and then I saw her kneel beside it, and heard
her say it was the grave of her infant, her
murdered infant.

" I marked the wildness of her gestures as
she waved her hand over the tomb, and bade
the gouls, who were prowling in the grave-yard,
to keep away from her infant. My heart died
within me at the sight of a human creature sub-
dued to such a lowliness. I recognised her at
last ; she was a poor maniac, driven mad by
wretchedness. I remembered her young and
beautiful, timid as a fawn, and no less gentle.
I remembered her in the fanaal, ere she had be-
come a wife ; the Phrosyne of her time, fol-
lowed by princes, courted by the great, and
idolized by all. I contrasted the delicacy of
her beauty at that period with her present woe-
begone aspect, seared by sun and storm. Oh,
Effendi, I do not wonder that you groan !
Need I tell you who that forlorn creature was ?
Need I harrow up your soul, by coupling the
dearest name in life with the greatest load of


human misery ? Need I say, the wreck of rea-
son and loveliness on which I gazed was all that
remained of the once beautiful Emineh ?

" You are a man, Effendi, and must endea-
vour to bear your affliction like a man. I will
open the casement a little, and by and by, if it
please God, you will feel better. I will say no
more for the present on this sad subject, but
to-morrow I will tell you all.'"

Mourad's hand was extended, as if the action
had been meant to be accompanied by a com-
mand to proceed ; but no word followed. The
gulping of an inarticulate sound was heard, but
the waving of the hand communicated the de-
sire which the agonized Moslem was unable to

" Well," continued the Greek, " if you are
resolved to hear it all, I will proceed. When
the words of the poor creature left no doubt
upon my mind of her being the wife of Miche-
laki, I approached the spot where she was
standing : I called to her by name ; I told her
I was the friend of her husband ; but the only
answer I received was a shriek, which thrilled
my very heart. She fled with the velocity


of the wind, and disappeared amidst the ruins.
After stopping a considerable time on the spot
where I had lost sight of her, in the vain hope
of again beholding her, I returned to the vil-
lage. Months passed away, and I heard no-
thing more of the poor creature ; but on going-
one morning to a village, some four hours' dis-
tant from our district, I observed her sitting
in the grave-yard at the entrance of the town.

" I was glad to find she made no effort to
avoid me when I approached, and that she ap-
peared much more composed than when I had
last seen her ; but when I examined her fea-
tures more attentively, there was a death-like
expression in her countenance, and a glassy
stare in her dim eyes, which I had not observed
when I last saw her. I spoke to her in our
language; the sound of it seemed to do her
good. I told her to be of good cheer, — tliat I
was her friend. She smiled at the word, but it
was a smile, EfFendi, to turn the words of com-
fort to ashes on one's lips. I asked her if she
had any recollection of me.^* She said she re-
collected no one but her infant. I spoke to her
of returning with me to her friends : she said


she had no friends. I inquired for her home ;
but she told me she had no home. I said I
would take her to mine, and I would soothe her
sorrows, and my wife would cherish her, and
my boy would give her comfort, and she would
get well, if it pleased God, and she would be
happy — she burst into a flood of tears. I
was glad to see her weep ; for 1 was sure it was
many a long day since she shed a tear, and I
thought it would do her good to weep, and that
it was a sure sign of returning reason. It was
the sign of returning reason, but it was also
the symptom of approaching death : it was the
date of the interval in misery between madness
and dissolution ; it was the period of the light-
ing-up of the fading mind previous to its last
long night.

" I asked her to endeavour to rise, and ac-
company me to the village, where some assist-
ance should be procured for her. She made an
effort to get up, but her feeble limbs refused
their office. I awaited impatiently the ap-
proach of some passenger, to assist me to con-
vey her to the town, fearful of her expiring
where she lay. I besought her to inform me,


though she had no settled habitation, where
she had found a shelter the preceding night.
She pointed to the graves around her. I asked
her if she had had no other abode during the
winter .'* and she replied, No other. * But how,
in the name of Allah ! my poor Emineh,'' said
I, ' how have you managed to subsist .'' where
have you found bread ? and who has been your
benefactor ?"" She lifted her dim eyes to Hea-
ven ; she pointed to a few beans which lay be-
side her. I could not help weeping; the tears
poured down my cheeks, they fell on the cold
hand which I held in mine. She looked at me
with surprise, and asked me, did I pity her ?
I said, from the very bottom of my soul I
pitied her. She told me she had nothing to
give me for my kindness, but God would re-
pay me. She would thank me, she said, but
what were the thanks of a poor forlorn wretch
like her ?

" My heart bled for her ; I tried to encou-
rage her, but the words died away on my lips.
At length an Imam of a neighbouring mosque
passed by. ' Reverend EfFendi T I exclaimed,
* for the sake of your mother"'s soul, assist me


to carry this sick woman to the town ; if she is
left iiere any longer, she will certainly perish.'

" ' She is a rayah, I suppose, like yourself,'
replied the Imam ; ' since you interest yourself
about her, you had better get one of the unbe-
lievers of your people to help her. It is not
for a divine to profane his hands with the touch
of an infidel.'

" The unfeeling priest passed on. A grandee
rode by on horseback, followed by several run-
ning grooms. I ran to his side, and kissed his
stirrup. ' EfFendi !* I cried, ' yonder poor crea-
ture, who is sitting on that grave, is in the ago-
nies of death. By the magnificence of your
house ! send one of your servants to assist me
in bearing her hence.*

" The great man never deigned to look me in
the face ; he condescended not to give me a
reply, and went his way,

" Shortly after a poor fakir came by the
grave-yard ; the beggar looked full of misery,
but he was humming a love-song; as he walked

" * Peace be on you, companion !' said I ;
' here is a sick woman who cannot move, it


would be a charity of you to give your aid to
take her to a house.'

" ' Willingly,' said the beggar ; ' this deso-
late place is a sad abode for a sick woman : if
you think a crust of bread and a draught of
water will do her good, I can give you both ; I
wish I had something better to offer her.'

" ' God bless you !' said I ; ' when the proud
priest is in the bosom of Eblis, when the un-
feeling rich man is in the lowest chamber of
hell, your kindness will be found recorded in
the book above. Your crust of bread it is
needless to present to her, the draught of
water may refresh her parched lips.'

" We raised her, EfFendi, but she was unable
to put a foot under her ; we conveyed her to
the village, where I procured a lodging for her,
and I remained with her the few hours she was
in existence. I said every thing I thought that
was likely to give her any comfort. I told her
you were not dead, as she imagined, but that
you were in a distant country, and, if rumovir
erred not, that your footsteps had been for-

" Oh, Effendi, how she fixed her dying

284 Tllli MUSSULMAN.

glance upon me, when I said these words ! How
she struggled to speak to me ! and when the
faltering accents did find their way to her lips,
what heart-rending tones were her's !

•**AHve!' said she; 'did you say he was
alive? my beautiful boy, the cliild in whom my
soul was wrapped ! the smiling infant that was
torn from my bosom ! Did you say he was not
murdered ? Tell me, by the God of mercy ! tell
me, is my child in life ?'

" ' He is, Emineh,' said I; 'he is grown in
strength and stature; the little shoot has flou-
rished, and become a plant, and the blossom
has not belied the promise of the opening

" ' Thanks !' cried the dying woman, ' a
thousand thanks to Heaven ! I thought he had
been dead ; how I came to think so, I know
not — my mind is all confusion — it was a
dream, I suppose, of grief and madness. When
I made my home in the cold grave-yard, I fan-
cied I was on the spot where my child was
buried ; and when the passengers shuddered at
my haggard features, I felt as if I was unfit for


the habitations of men. When the cravings of
famine compelled me to visit the neighbouring
villages, I have some recollection of the words
that were spoken to me. Some said I was mad
when I talked of the child's murder; others
called me the associate of gouls when I return-
ed to the tombs ; and some even made a mock-
ery of my grief, and bade me show them how I
danced with the gibbering spectres of the grave.
God help me ! if 1 was not mad, their cruelty
was enough to make me so. If the boy lives,
as you say he does, should you ever see him,
tell him, I conjure you, how his poor mother
loved him, even to distraction ; tell him, in all
her misery, his image was in her desolate heart ;
in all her madness, that her ravings were of him

" Try to be calm, EfFendi ; the anguish of
your countenance terrifies my soul. For the
sake of the Madonna ! ask me not to proceed."
" Speak on, man," cried jVIourad, endea-
vouring to look composed ; *' my countenance
deceives you. I am not moved, — oh, no,
I can hear all you have to say, and be calm —


calm as the grave, my good friend, where
the heart festers, and no complaint quivers on
the lip."

" Heaven give you patience !" replied the
Greek, " you have much need of it. How
much ashes has the villainy of one man brought
on the head of you and yours !

'' The effort the poor creature had made
to speak so exhausted her, that she lay all
the evening without speech or motion ; we put
wine repeatedly to her lips, and it appeared
to revive her for a time, but towards night-
fall she became unable to swallow, and the
coldness gradually went on, extending from
the extremities to the bo;ly, and when I put
my hand on her poor head, it was like a
mass of ice. It chilled my very soul ; I felt it
stealing over my fingers and creeping along my
veins till my arm ached, and my whole frame
shivered with the electrifying chilliness of death;

" Her breathing was not quickened during the
struggle, the decay of nature had been too gra-
dual to admit of any violent suffering in the
last moments ; her hands never stirred, her lips
never moved, no pang convulsed her features.


I put my finger to her wrist repeatedly, but I
could feel no throb. I laid my hand on her
temples, but there was no pulsation : for the last
half-hour I felt a fluttering motion about the
heart, it was the vibration of the last chord of
life ; every moment it became feebler and feebler,
till at last, such was the faintness of its thrill,
that I lost it altogether. She gasped a little,
and heaved a long-drawn sigh, and all was silent
as the grave. I thought I still could perceive
the faint fluttering at the heart, but I was de-
ceived ; I put a feather to her lips, but it never
moved ; the women who stood round the bed
asked me if it was over. I touched the cold
hand, and it was stiff" and motionless. I re-
tired from the bed-side, the spectators still lin-
eered at a little distance, and were afraid to
approach ; I told them she was no more !

" The following day, I collected a little money
amongst the Greek inhabitants of the village,
and in the evening we deposited the remains of
your poor mother in the tomb."

The sad story was finished. Even he who
narrated it was himself in some parts almost
inarticulate witii grief. He sobbed aloud when


he ceased speaking; but the listener neither
sighed, nor wept, nor sobbed : he asked for a
httle cold water ; he arose, he took hold of the
hand of the kind-hearted rayah, and pressed it
to his heart.

"Do not leave me thus," exclaimed the
Greek ; " for the sake of the Madonna ! speak
to me ; promise me, before you leave the liouse,
to let the violence of your anguish lead you to
the commission of no mad act. Speak to me,
I conjure you, if it be only one word, to assure
me this lamentable story has not affected you
too deeply, and deprived you of all command
over your feelings."

" Fear nothing for me," replied Mourad.
" I leave you only to seek the solitude of my
own chamber ; it best befits me just now. To-
morrow, if it please God, I will come to you
to thank you for all your kindness. If I
could pray, I would call down the blessings of
Heaven upon your head."

He turned away, from the rayah, and left the



Vengeance ! plague ! death ! confusion !


Yussuf's reputation as a headsman stood as
liigh in Stamboul as that of the chief execu-
tioner himself. In his quality of lieutenant to
the latter, he had much more frequent oppor-
tunities of exercising his skill than he could
have possibly had in Smyrna. A day seldom
passed over without furnishing an execution
either in private or in public, and as the chief
was somewhat advanced in years, he left the
disposal of such poor wretches as porters, ga-
langis, Jews, and Christians to his worthy lieu-
tenant, who acquitted him of his task much
better than his father-in-law had anticipated.

The dignity of Yussuf's appearance had

VOL. in. o


much to do with his reputation. Since the
period of his departure from Bournarbashi, he
had become not only robust, but for a man of
liis age, corpulent ; and the placid expression of
his handsome features, united with the imposing
gravity of his demeanour, ensured him the re-
spect which never fails to be shown to an Effendi
of a portly figure and a face of apathy. When
he was a candidate for the office of lieutenant,
he thought his appointment would leave him
nothing more to desire on earth. He had been
rid of his wife some weeks before; but when he
had the good fortune to obtain the office which
was the object of his ambition, he began to
think that something more than bastinadoing
feet was essential to his happiness, and when he
was permitted to cut off heads of vulgar culprits,
he pined after the still higher privilege of deca-
pitating pachas and governors.

He feared that his master was immortal, and
would never afford him an opportunity of step-
ping into his shoes. Yussuf was the very quint-
escence of a Turkish Effendi ; he was good-
looking, indolent, ignorant, and superstitious ;
he was the very man for Lady Mary Wortley


Montague to prefer to Sir Isaac Newton. He
had consulted every astrologer of any repute
in the capital concerning the probability of his
succession to the sword of his master : amongst
the number was Abou Rassed, who still derived
his bread from the sacred giam.

Of all those he had consulted, he had the
best opinion of the Zabian's knowledge ; and on
the recovery of his master from a recent attack
of illness, he proceeded to his favourite Astro-
loger, to ascertain the probability of another
malady supervening more serious than the last. .

Abou Rassed received the Lieutenant with all
the respect due to the high rank of his visitor.
The old man was nearly doubled by age, but
his faculties were still vigorous, and his features
were those of a venerable age, so well in him
appeared " the constant service of the antique
world." Yussuf observed a Dervish about
leaving the apartment as he entered, but, after
regarding him for some seconds, he addressed
Yussuf in a familiar tone of voice, and asked
him if he had not the felicity of speaking to the
son of Suleiman, of Bournarbashi ? When he
received an answer in the affirmative, he called

o 2


to the EfFendi's mind his having seen him in
the klian, when he attended his sister Zuleika.
The Dervish was all smiles when he addressed
the Lieutenant, but the latter condescended not
to wreathe his countenance with a single one, or
to manifest any sign of recognition. The Der-
vish, however, was not easily rebuffed : he men-
tioned every circumstance which ought to have
recalled him to the Effendi's mind ; he talked
of his voyage to Egypt, and of his acquaintance
with his brother Mourad ; and he finished by
stating how fortunate he had been in having so
amiable a companion for his homeward voyage.

The gravity of the slothful features of Yus-
suf was instantly discomposed. The name of
Mourad seemed to awaken every slumbering
fiend in his bosom ; he began to make inquiries
after the health of the Dervish ; he hoped he
had been fortunate in his travels, and prosper-
ous in his undertakings. He trusted he would
be condescending enough to visit his poor house,
and to eat his pilau with him, whenever it was
convenient to him.

The Dervish was overpowered bji^the exces-


sive kindness of the Lieutenant ; he promised to
avail himself of his courteous invitation, and he
could not help thinking how much handsomer a
man was Yussuf than his brother ; how much
more affable, and how njuch better-dressed an

" Poor Mourad !" said the Lieutenant, ad-
dressing the Dervish in a very affectionate tone
of voice, " how many a long year has elapsed
since I beheld him ! I hope he has preserved
his health, and looks well and happy."

" His body's health," replied the Dervish,
" is unimpaired ; but his souPs health, I fear,
is mortally injured. Many griefs have preyed
upon his heart, and spread dejection on his pal-
lid features."

" Ah !" cried Yussuf, affecting not to under-
stand the observation of the Dervish, " I was
always apprehensive that he would find tlie
burning sun and broihng sands of El Masr pre-
judicial to his health ; but, thank Allah ! he
has returned, we must do our best to restore
him to his strength ; but I take it unkindly of
him not to have made mine the first house he


entered in Stamboul. I suppose he is lodged in
some khan in the neighbourhood. Where, pray,
may I make inquiries for him ?"

" AH Dervish," said Abou llassed, in a loud
voice, " it was but last night I consulted the
sacred giam, as you begged me to do for you ;
and as this Effendi may be in a hurry to depart,
I will tell you the words I read in the cup of
fate, and entreat you to leave me for the pre-

" By six qualities," says the proverb, " may
a fool be known. I read them in the giam, and
I saw your name beneath it. Anger without
cause ; change without motive ; inquiry without
an object, are the three first ; but the three last
are the most important. 'l^hey are, speech
without profit; familiarity with strangers; and
incapacity to discriminate between a friend and
a foe."

Yussuf scowled ; but the Zabian heeded him
not. " Go, Dervish," said he, " and God's
peace be with you ! Remember the giam ; listen
to its words, and be silent if you would be

The Dervish uttered not another syllable.


but left the room, while Yussuf in vain called
after him to return ; but he returned not.

" I thought," said Abou Rassed, as he closed
the door after him, " I should never have got
rid of that profligate calender. It grieved me
to hear you ask him to your house. He would
not give a piastre to dine with a Mufti, unless
there was a bottle of rakee after dinner : he
drinks like a fish, Eftendi ; and when he is drunk,
the profanity of his discourse is truly awful."

Yussuf appeared to be satisfied with the ex-
planation he had just heard for the motive of
the astrologer's interference. He cursed it in
his heart ; but he still hoped the Dervish would
call on him, and even if he did not, he thought
there would be little difficulty in making out
the khan where Mourad lodged.

" I cannot stay long with you to-day, father,*"
said Yussuf; "but, I pray you, consult my
horoscope, and tell me when am I to attain the
object of my wishes."

" It is soon done, my son," said the Zabian,
pulling down a large map, covered over with
stars, from the shelf, which he spread on the
carpet. He then put on a pair of green spec-


tacles, took a long rod in his hand, and walked

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