by Mór Jókai
CHAPTER XIII
A BALL IN THE SERAGLIO
It was the birthday of the Sultana Valideh. The Sultana, Mahmoud'smother, was, we may remember, a Frenchwoman, whose parents, natives ofthe Isle of Martinique, had sent her to Paris while still very young,and placed her, till she was sixteen, in a convent to be educated.Then the family sent word that she was to return to the beautifulisland on the farther side of Africa; but during the voyage a tempestdestroyed the ship, and the crew had to take to the boats. One ofthese boats, in which was the pretty French girl, was captured byBarbary corsairs, who sold her to the Sultan. The rest we know, ofcourse--
"Elle eut beau dire: Je me meurs! De nonne elle devient Sultane!"
Those poor flowers that are brought together from all the corners ofthe earth to stock the Grand Signior's harem, and who know nothingexcept how to love, paled before the radiant loveliness and thesparkling wit of this damsel, who had been brought up in the midst ofEuropean culture. She became the favorite wife of Selim, she bore himMahmoud, and her son loved his mother much better than all his damselsput together.
A great surprise had been prepared for the Sultana Valideh. The Sultanhad arranged the whole thing himself in secret. He was going to give adance, after the European fashion, in the Seraglio.
Tailors were brought from Vienna who set to work upon dresses in thelatest fashion for the odalisks; the eunuchs were taught the latestwaltz music, a minuet, and two French square dances; and the girlswere all taught how to dance these dances. The men who had admittanceinto the harem, the Kizlar-Agasi, the Anaktar Bey, the heir to thethrone (Abdul Mejid), and the Sultan himself, wore brown Europeandress-suits, so that when the Sultana stepped into the magnificentlyilluminated porcelain chamber she stood rooted to the floor withastonishment. She imagined herself to be at a court ball at Paris,just as she had seen it at the Louvre when a child. A surging mob ofhundreds and hundreds of young odalisks was proudly strutting to andfro in stylish dresses of the latest fashion, in long gloves and silkstockings. Instead of turbans, plumed hats and bouquets adorned themagnificent masses of their curled and frizzled locks. They movedabout with bare shoulders and bosoms, in soft wavy dresses, with fanspainted over with butterflies, freely laughing and jesting in this, tothem, newest of worlds, and the only thing that differentiated thisball from our dancing entertainments was the absence of the darkerportion of the show--the masculine element.
There were only four representatives of this _sombre nuance_--to wit,the Sultan, the heir to the throne, the Kizlar-Agasi, and the AnaktarBey. Of these four, two were no longer and two were not yet men. Allfour were dressed in stiff Hungarian dolmans, long black pantaloons,and red fezes. The Sultan, with his thick-set figure, would havepassed very well for a substantial Hungarian deputy-lord-lieutenant,with his tight-fitting, bulging dolman buttoned right up to his chin.The young prince's elegant figure, on the other hand, was brought intostrong relief by his well-made suit; his hair was nicely curled onboth sides, and his genteel white shirt was visible beneath his opendolman. The Kizlar-Agasi, on the contrary, cut a very amusing figurein his unwonted garb. He was constantly endeavoring to thrust his handinto his girdle, and only thus perceived that he had none, and he kepton holding down the tails of his coat, as if he felt ashamed that theymight not reach low enough to cover him decently.
The Sultana Valideh was favorably surprised. The spectacle broughtback to her her childish years, and she gratefully pressed her son toher bosom for this delicate attention, while he respectfully kissedhis mother's hands. The Sultan scattered his love among a great manywomen, but his mother alone could boast of possessing his respect.
The odalisks surrounded the good Sultan, rejoicing and caressing him.He was never severe to any of them--nay, rather, he was the champion,the defender of them all, and those whom he loved might be quite surethat his affection would be constant.
Every one tried to please the Sultana Valideh by showing her their newgarments, but none of them found such favor in her eyes as the newflower, which had only recently been introduced into the Seraglio,and was now the foremost of them all, the beautiful Circassian damsel.Her light step, the dove-like droop of her neck, the charm of herfull, round shoulders, and her lovely young bosom, were such that onewas almost tempted to believe that she had been carried off bodilyfrom some Parisian salon, where they know so well how to take theutmost advantage of all the resources of fashion. Her locks weredressed up _a la Valliere_, with negligently falling curls which gavea slightly masculine expression to her face--an additional charm inthe eyes of a connoisseur. Yes, the Greek merchant was right; therewas no spot on the earth worth anything except the place where Milievalived and moved.
The Valideh kissed the odalisk on the forehead, and led her by thehand to the Sultan, who would not permit her to kiss his hand (whoever heard of a lady kissing the hand of a gentleman in eveningdress?), but permitted the young heir to the throne to take Milieva onhis arm and conduct her through the room. What a pretty pair ofchildren they made! Abdul Mejid at this time was scarce twelve yearsof age, the girl perhaps was fourteen; but for the difference of theirclothes, nobody could have said which was the boy and which the girl.
And now the tones of the hidden orchestra began to be heard, and afresh surprise awaited the Sultana. She heard once more the pianofortemelodies which she had known long ago, and the height of her amazementwas reached when the Sultan invited her to dance--a minuet.
What an absurd idea! The Sultana dowager to dance a minuet with herson, the Sultan, before all those laughing odalisks, who had neverbeheld such a thing before? Where was the second couple? Why here--theprince and Milieva, of course. They take their places opposite theimperial couple, and to slow, dreamy music, with great dignity theydance together the courteous and melancholy dance, bowing andcourtesying to each other with as much majesty and _aplomb_ as wasever displayed by the powdered cavaliers and beauty-plasteredgoddesses of the age of the _OEil de Boeuf_.
Never had such a spectacle been seen in the Seraglio.
The Sultana herself was amazed at the triumphant dexterity whichMilieva displayed in the dance; she was a consummate maid of honor,with that princely smile for which Gabrielle D'Estrees was once sofamous. The good Mahmoud so lost himself in the contemplation of theeyes of Milieva, his _vis-a-vis_, that towards the end of the dance hequite forgot his own part in it, folding Milieva to his breast indefiance of all rule and ceremony, and even kissing her face twice orthrice, although he ought not to have gone beyond kissing herhand--nay, he ought not to have kissed her hand at all, but the handof his partner, the Sultana Valideh.
When the minuet was over the eunuch musicians played a waltz in whichall the odalisks took part, clinging to one another in couples, andthus they danced the pretty _trois pas_ dance, for the _deux pas_revolution was the invention of a later and more progressive age.Louder than the music was the joyous uproar of the dancers themselves.Here and there some of them tumbled on the slippery floor to whichthey were not accustomed, and the nymphs coming after them fellaround them in heaps. Some disliked the dance or were weary, but theirfirier and more robust partners dragged them along, willy-nilly. Theold Kizlar-Agasi and the bey stood in the midst of them to take carethat no scandal took place. Suddenly the madcap odalisk armysurrounded them, clung on to them in twos and threes, dragged theminto the mad waltz, and twisted them round and round at a gallopingpace, till the two good old gentlemen had no more breath left in them.
The Sultan and the Valideh, with the prince and Milieva, were sittingon a raised dais, laughing and looking on at the merry spectacle. Thepipers piped more briskly, the drummers drummed more furiously, thecymbals clashed more loudly than ever, while the odalisks draggedtheir prey about uproariously.
Ah! Listen! What didst thou hear, good Sultan? What noise is thatoutside which mingles with the hubbub within? Outside there also is tobe heard the roll of drums, the flourish of trumpets, and the shoutsof men.
Nonsense! 'Tis but imagination. Bring hither the g
lasses--not thosetiny cups of sherbet, for this is the birthday of the Valideh. We willbe Europeans to-night. Bring hither wine and glasses for a toast!
The Sultan had a particular fondness for Tokay and champagne, and theambassadors of both these great Powers had the greatest influence withhim.
The odalisks also had to be made to taste these wines; and after thatthe dance proceeded more merrily, and the boisterous music andsinging grew madder and madder.
What was that?
The Sultan grew attentive. What uproar is that outside the Seraglio?What light is that which shines at the top of the round windows?
That uproar is no beating of drums; those shouts are not the shouts ofrevellers; that din is not the beating of cymbals; no, 'tis theclashing of swords, the thundering of cannons, the tumult of a siege,and that light is not the light of bonfires but of blazing rafters!
Up, up, Mahmoud, from thy sofa! Away with thy glass and out with thysword! This is no night for revelry; death is abroad; insurrection isat thy very gate! They are besieging the Seraglio!
Twelve thousand Janissaries, joined with the rabble of Stambul, areattacking the gates at the very time when the orchestra is playing itsliveliest airs in the illuminated hall.
"Do ye hear that?" exclaimed Kara Makan, the most famous orator of theJanissaries, who with his own hand had hung up the Metropolitan ofConstantinople on the very threshold of the palace. "Do ye hear thatmusic? Here they are rejoicing when the whole empire around them is inmourning. Do ye know what are the latest tidings this night? TheSuliotes have captured Gaskho Bey, and annihilated our army beforeJanina. A woman has blown up the ship of the Kapudan Pasha, and theShah has fallen upon Kermandzhan with an army! Destruction is drawingnear to us, and treachery dwells in the Seraglio. Hearken! They dance,they sing, they bathe their lips in wine, and their blasphemies bringupon us the scourge of Allah! We shed our tears and our blood, andthey make merry and mock at us! Shall not they also weep? Shall nottheir blood also be shed? So fare it with them as it has fared withour brethren whom they sent to the shambles!"
The furious mob answered these seditious words with an indescribablebellowing.
"If we traversed the whole empire we should not find a worse spot thanthis place."
"Set fire to the Seraglio!" cried one voice suddenly, and the otherstook up the cry.
"And if you escape from all other enemies, would you fall into theclaws of the worst enemies of all?"
"Death to the Viziers! Death to the lords of the palace!" thunderedthe people; and one voice close to Kara Makan, rising above theothers, exclaimed, "Death to the Sultan!"
Kara Makan turned in that direction and defended his master. "Hurt notthe Sultan! The life of the Sultan is sacred. He and his children arethe last survivors of the blood of Omar; and although he be not worthyto sit on the throne which the heroic Muhammad erected for hisdescendants, yet he is the last of his race, and, therefore, the headof the Sultan is sacred. But death upon the head of the Reis-Effendi,death to the Kizlar-Agasi and the Kapudan Pasha! They are the cause ofour desolation. The chiefs of the Giaours pay them to destroy theircountry. Tear all these up by the roots, and if there be any childrenof their family, destroy them also, even to the very babes andsucklings, that the memory of them may perish utterly!"
The mob thundered angrily at the gates of the Seraglio, which wereshut and fastened with chains. The Janissaries blew the horns ofrevolt, the drums rolled, and within there the Sultan was reposing hishead on the bosom of a beautiful girl. Suddenly a loud report shookthe whole Seraglio. An audacious ichoglan had fired his gun upon themob as it rushed to attack the water-gate.
The Sultan, in dismay, quitted the harem, and hastened to the middlegate in order to address the mob. On his way through the corridor, hisservants and his ministers threw themselves at his feet and imploredhim not to show himself to the people. Mahmoud did not listen to them.In the confusion of the moment, moreover, it never occurred to himthat he was wearing a Frankish costume, which the people hated andexecrated.
When he appeared on the balcony the light of the torches fell fullupon him, and the Janissaries recognized him. Every one at oncepointed their fingers at him, and immediately an angry and scornfulhowl arose.
"Look! that is the Sultan! Behold the Caliph--the Caliph, the Padishahof the Moslems--in the garb of the Giaours! That is Mahmoud, the allyof our enemies!"
The Sultan shrank before this furious uproar of the mob, and,involuntarily falling back, stammered, pale as death:
"With what shall we allay this tempest?"
His servants, with quivering lips, stood around him. At that momentthey neither feared nor respected their master.
Suddenly a bold young ichoglan rushed towards the Sultan, andanswered his question in a courageous and confident voice:
"With swords, with guns, with weapons!"
It was Thomar.
The Sultan scrutinized the youth from head to foot, amazed at hisaudacity; then hastening back to his dressing-chamber, exchanged hisball dress for his royal robes, and, coming back from the innerapartments, descended into the court-yard.
The guns were already pointed at the gates, the topijis stood besidethem, match in hand, impatiently awaiting the order to fire.
When the Sultan appeared in the court-yard he was at once surroundedby some hundreds of the ichoglanler, determined to defend him to thelast drop of their blood. Mahmoud again recognized Thomar among them;he appeared to be the leading spirit of the band.
The Sultan beckoned to them to put back their swords in their sheaths.He commanded the topijis to extinguish their matches. Next he orderedthat the gate of the Seraglio should be thrown open to the people.Then, having bidden every one to stand aside, he went alone towardsthe gate in his imperial robes, with a majestic bearing.
No sooner was the gate thrown open than the mob streamed into thecourt-yard with torches and flashing weapons in their hands, standingfor a moment dumb with astonishment at the appearance of the Sultan.He was no longer ridiculous, as he had been in that foreign garb. Themajestic bearing of the prince stilled the tumult for an instant, butfor an instant only. The following moment a hand was extended fromamong the mob of rebels which tore the Sultan's caftan from hisshoulder.
Mahmoud grew pale at this audacity, and this pallor was a freshoccasion of danger to him, for now he was suddenly seized from allsides. The Sultan turned, therefore, and perceiving Thomar, called tohim, "Defend my harem!" and, at the same time freeing his sword-arm,he drew his sword, waved it above his hand, and, while his foes werewaiting to see on whom the blow would fall, he threw the sword toThomar, exclaiming, "Defend my son!"
The young ichoglan grasped Mahmoud's sword, and, while the capturedSultan disappeared in the mazes of the mob, he and his comradesreturned to the inner court-yard, and, barricading the door, fiercelydefended the position against the insurgents. He had now to showhimself worthy of that sword, the sword of the Sultan.
Gradually two thousand ichoglanler and three thousand bostanjisgathered round the young hero. The Janissaries already lay in heapsbefore the door, which they riddled with bullets till it looked like acorn-sifter. But the youths of the Seraglio repelled every onset.
And why did not the Sultan remain with them? They would have defendedhim against all the world: Who knew now what had become of him?Perhaps they had killed him outright.
The Janissaries speedily perceived that they could not have doneanything worse for themselves than to have brought torches with them,for thereby they were distinctly visible to the defenders of theSeraglio, and every shot that came from thence told.
"Put out the torches!" shouted Kara Makan, who was holding a hugeconcave buckler in front of him, and felt a third bullet piercethrough the twofold layers of buffalo-hide and graze his body.
The torches went out one after another, whereupon the spaciouscourt-yard was darkened; only the flash of firearms cast an occasionalgleam of light upon the struggling mass.
It might have been two hours afte
r midnight when suddenly there was acessation of hostilities. Both sides were weary, and ceased firing;the Janissaries whispered amongst themselves, and at last in the midstof a deep silence, Kara Makan's thunderous voice made itself heard:
"Listen, all of ye who are inside the Seraglio. Ye are good warriors,and we are good warriors also, and it is folly for the Faithful todestroy one another. We did not take up arms to slay you and plunderthe Seraglio, neither do we wish to kill the Padishah nor the heir tothe throne; but we would rescue them from the hands of the traitorswho surround them, and we would also deliver the realm from faithlessViziers and counsellors. Give us, therefore, the prince, the Sultan'sson. Of a truth no harm shall befall him, and we will thereupon quitthe court-yard of the Seraglio and trouble nobody within these doors.If, however, you will not grant our request, then Allah be merciful toall who are within these beleaguered walls."
The Kizlar-Agasi conveyed this message into the Seraglio, andbesiegers and besieged awaited with rapt attention the reply of theValideh; for the decision lay with her--she was superior in rank toall four of the Asseki sultanas.
After the lapse of a quarter of an hour the Kizlar-Agasi returned, andsignified to the besiegers that the prince would be handed over tothem.
The Janissaries received this message with a howl of triumph, whilethe ichoglanler shrugged their shoulders.
"They are not all women in there for nothing," said Thomar, savagely,to the Kizlar-Agasi, and he remained standing in the gate, that hemight, at any rate, kiss the young prince's hand and whisper to himnot to go.
The Janissaries relit their torches and crowded towards the gate.Inside reigned a pitch-black darkness.
Not long afterwards footsteps were audible in the dark corridor, and,escorted by two torch-bearers, the prince descended the steps. He hadon the same garment which he wore when he went on horseback to theMosque of Sophia during the Feast of Bairam. How the people had thenhuzzahed before him! He wore pantaloons of rose-colored silk, yellowbuskins with slender heels, a green caftan embroidered with goldflowers, and a handsome yellow silk vest buttoned up to his chin. Hisribbons and buttons were made so as to represent brilliant flutteringbutterflies incrusted with precious stones.
On reaching the gate he beckoned to the torch-bearers to stand still,sent back the Kizlar-Agasi, and, proceeding all alone to the gate,commanded that it should be flung open.
While this was being done Thomar pressed close up to him, and seizingthe prince's hand, kissed it, at the same time whispering in his ear,"Go not; we will defend you if you remain here."
The prince pressed Thomar's hand and whispered back, "I must go; youkeep on defending the Seraglio!" And with that he embraced the youthand kissed him twice with great fervor.
Thomar was somewhat startled by this burning, affectionate kiss, andwondered what it meant. The darkness did not allow him to distinguishthe prince's features; and when he tried to detain him once more theprince hastily disengaged himself and stepped forth from under thedark vault among the Janissaries.
Thomar covered his eyes with his hands; he did not want to see thefate of the prince at that moment. It was quite possible that theblood-thirsty might cut him down on the spot in a sudden access offury.
The prince stepped forth among the rebels.
At that moment a cry of unbridled joy, triumph, and blood-thirstinessburst from the Janissaries. It needed but one of them to raise hishand, and the next would speedily have completed the bloodiest deed ofall.
But the prince stood before them haughtily and valiantly, and, withamazing audacity, cried to them, "Down on your knees before me, yerebels!"
At these words Thomar, with a start of terror, looked at the prince.The full light of the torches fell upon his charming face. It was notAbdul Mejid, but--Milieva! They had dressed her inside the harem ingarments suitable to the Feast of Bairam, and she had come out insteadof the prince, courageously, as if she had been born to it. Who waslikely to notice the change? The heart of this odalisk loved to play amanly part, and it was not merely the masculine garb she wore whichtransformed her, but the masculine soul within her.
The Janissaries, moreover, were dumfounded by this bold attitude. Thisgraceful, noble figure stood face to face with them and domineered themob with a commanding look, proudly, majestically, as became a bornruler. And yet death hovered over the head of him who dared to say, "Iam the prince!"
Thomar, forgetting himself, seized his sword, and would have rushed tothe defence of his sister but his comrades held him back. "What wouldyou do, unhappy wretch? Trust to Fate!"
Kara Makan, in savage defiance, approached the false prince with adrawn sword in his hand.
"On your knees before me!" cried the odalisk, and indicating where heshould kneel with an imperious gesture, she looked steadily into theeyes of the savage warrior.
The ferocious figure stood hesitatingly before her. The magic of herlook held the wild beast in him spellbound for an instant. Hisbloodshot eyes slowly drooped, his hand, with its flashing sword, sankdown by his side, his knees gave way beneath him, and, falling down atthe feet of the young child, he submissively murmured a salaam,kissing her hand and laying his bloody sword at her feet.
Milieva pressed her right hand on the head of the subdued rebel,looked proudly and fearlessly upon the dumb-stricken rebels, and then,raising the sword and giving it back to Kara Makan, she cried, "Gobefore and open a way for me!"
As if in obedience to a magic word, the crowd parted on both sidesbefore her, and Kara Makan, with his sword over his shoulder, led theway along. The crowd, with an involuntary homage, made way for hereverywhere from the Seraglio to the Seven Towers, and twotorch-bearers walked by her side, between whom she marched as proudlyas if she were making her triumphal progress. Nobody perceived thedeception. The resemblance of the young face to that of the prince,the well-known festal raiment of the Feast of Bairam, her manlybearing, all combined to keep up the delusion, and amongst this_canaille_ which held her in its power there was not a singledignitary who knew the prince intimately and might have detected thefraud.
The Sultan had just been thrust into the dungeon of the Seven Towers,that place of dismal memories for the Sultans and their families ingeneral. In that octagonal chamber, whose round windows overlooked thesea, more than one mortal sigh had escaped from the lips of thedescendants of Omar, whom a powerful faction or a triumphant rivalhad, sooner or later, condemned to death.
It was now morning, the uproar of the rebellion had died away outside,the Seraglio was no longer besieged. It was now that Kara Makanappeared before the Sultan.
The Padishah was sitting on the ground--on the bare ground. His royalrobes were still upon him, a diamond aigrette sparkled in the turbanof the Caliph, and there he sat upon the ground, and never took hiseyes off it.
"Your majesty!" cried Kara Makan, addressing him.
The Padishah, as if he had not heard, looked apathetically in front ofhim, and not a muscle of his face changed.
"Sire, I stand before thee to speak to thee in the name of the Moslempeople."
He might just as well have been speaking to a marble statue.
"Every storm proceeds from Allah, sire, and nothing which Allah doesis done without cause. When the lightnings are scattered abroad fromthe hands of the angel Adramelech, is not the air beneath them heavywith curses? and when the living earth quakes beneath the towns thatare upon it, shall not innocently spilled blood shake it still more?So also the Moslem people rising in rebellion is the instrument ofAllah, and Allah knoweth the causes thereof. I will guard my tongueagainst telling these causes to thee; thou knowest them right wellalready, nor is it for me to reprove the anointed successor of theProphet. But I beg thee, sire, to promise me and the people, in thename of Allah, that thou wilt do what it beseemeth the ruler of theOttoman nation to do--promise to remedy our wrongs, and we will setthee again upon thy throne."
At these words Mahmoud fixed his eyes upon the speaker, and gazed longupon those dark features, as sinist
er as an eclipse of the sun. Thenhe arose, turned away, and replied in a low voice, hissing withcontempt:
"The Sultan owes no reply to his servants."
Kara Makan's face was convulsed at these words. Scarce was he able tostifle his wrath, and he replied, in broken sentences:
"Sire, the lion is the king of the desert--but if he is in a cage--helistens to the voice of his keeper--thou knowest this hand, which hathfought for thee in many engagements--and thou knowest that whateverthis hand seizeth it seizeth with a grasp of iron."
The Sultan pondered long. Then all at once he seemed to bethink him ofsomething, for his face seemed to lose its severity, and he turnedtowards the Janissary leader with a mild, indulgent look.
"What, then, dost thou require?" This softened look concealed thegenesis of the thought--the Janissaries must be wiped off the face ofthe earth. "What dost thou require?" said the Padishah, softly.
Kara Makan put on an important look, as of one who knows that the fateof empires is in his hands.
"Hearken to our desires. We are honest Mussulmans. We do not askimpossibilities. If thou canst convince us that our demands areunlawful, we renounce them; if thou canst not convince us, accomplishthem."
Mahmoud's lips wore a bitter smile at this wise speech.
"I do not strive with you," he replied. "Ye command me. The Caliph ofcaliphs listens to his servants. Bring hither parchment and anink-horn, and dictate to my pen what ye demand. The Sultan will beyour scribe, great rebel!"
Kara Makan was not bright enough to penetrate the irony of thesewords; nay, rather, he felt himself flattered by the humility of theSultan's speech. With haughty self-assurance he bared his bosom anddrew forth a large roll of manuscript.
"I will save your majesty the trouble," said he to Mahmoud, smoothingout the document before him. "Behold, it is all ready. Thou hast onlyto write thy name beneath it."
"Will ye allow me to read it?" inquired the Sultan, with the samebitter smile; "or is it the wish of the people that I should sign itunread?"
"As your majesty pleases."
Mahmoud took up the documents one after another, and piled them upbeside him as he read them.
"Ah! the appointment of a new seraskier! I will read no further. Iagree, but I would know his name. Is he whom you desire fit for thepost?"
"We want Kurshid," explained Kara Makan, perceiving that the Sultanhad not read the document.
"And the Janissaries demand other rewards for themselves. 'Tis onlynatural: I grant them. They cannot be expected to storm the Seragliofor nothing. The chief treasurer will pay you whatever you require.This third article, too, I see, demands the capture of Janina. Be itso. I grant it. Most probably the whole Janissary host will want to goagainst Ali Pasha."
"So long as thou art at their head," said Kara Makan, somewhatdisturbed. "The Janissaries are only bound to fight under the directcommand of the Sultan."
"And all these other demands are equally reasonable, eh?" said theSultan, just glancing at one or two of them.
He took up the last one, but when he had unfolded it his facedarkened, and he suddenly leaped to his feet, his good-natured apathychanged into wrath and fierceness, and, striking the open documentwith his fist, he exclaimed, with an access of emotion:
"What's this? Are ye so bold as to expect me to sign this paper?"
Kara Makan was so well prepared for this outburst of anger on theSultan's part that he was not in the least taken aback. With rusticstolidity he replied:
"We wish it, and we demand it."
"Do you know what is written in this document?"
"Yes; that thou must free the realm from foreigners; that thou mustput the Russian ambassador Stroganov on board ship and send him home;refuse to admit French and English ships into the Bejkoz; send theSultana Valideh far away to Damascus; and slay the Grand Vizier, theKizlar-Aga, the Berber Pasha, and the Kapudan Pasha, and give theirbodies to the people."
The Grand Signior contemptuously threw the document to the floor andtrampled it beneath his feet.
"Shameless filibusterers," he cried; "not blood but money is what youwant. Ye want permission not to deliver the realm, but to plunder it.And you expect the Padishah to sanction it! Did not you yourselvesraise the Viziers to power? Were not you the cause of their not beingable to make any use of that power? Whenever the arms of the Giaourswere triumphant, were you not always the first to fly from the fieldof battle? And when the realm was sinking, were you not always thelast to hasten to its assistance? You are no descendants, but the mereshadows of those glorious Janissaries whose names are written withletters of blood in the annals of foreign nations; but ye make but apoor and wretched figure therein. Kill me, then! I shall not be thefirst Sultan whom the Janissaries have murdered, but, in Allah's nameI say it, I shall be the last. After me, either nobody will sit on thethrone of Omar, or, if any one sits there, he will be your ruin."
The opposition of his august captive only restored the Janissaryleader to his proper element. He felt much more at home with thosewrathful eyes than with the previous contemptuous nonchalance. Hecould now give back like for like.
He picked up the crumpled document, in which were written thedeath-sentences of the Viziers, and, brushing off the dust, againpresented it to the Sultan.
"Either sign this document or descend from the throne of the family ofOmar, and we will seek us out from among the descendants of theProphet another who shall reign in thy stead."
"Most abject of slaves! In thy pride thou knowest not what thousayest! Death comes from Allah and none can avoid it; but who amongstthe descendants of Omar would be powerful enough to seize the royalsceptre, and who would be senseless enough to desire it?"
"Look at me."
"I am looking. The sun does not soil itself by shining upon a swamp,and therefore I may look even at thee; but I see nothing in thee thatwould justify the adorning of thy head with a diadem so long as oneof the descendants of Sulaiman the Magnificent is alive."
"Another word and thou shalt cease to live!" cried the desperado,haughtily throwing back his head before the Sultan. "Art thou awarethat thy son Abdul Mejid is in our hands?"
The Sultan shuddered. His consternation at these words was written inevery feature.
"My son, Abdul Mejid? Impossible!"
"So it is. The Sultana Valideh gave him up at our request."
"Oh, madness!" exclaimed the Sultan; and he began pacing to and fro.
Abdul Mejid was still a mere child. The shock of such a rebellionmight easily make an epileptic of him. To deliver him into the handsof these rebels was as good as to sign his death-warrant. Even if theydid not kill him outright, his nerves might suffer from theirviolence, and he might perish, as the two and twenty other children ofSultan Mahmoud had perished, every one of whom had died of epilepsy.Their delicate nervous constitutions had been shattered in their youthunder the influence of that perpetual terror to which the children ofthe Caliph of caliphs had been exposed from time immemorial. What,then, might not happen to Abdul Mejid if he fell into the hands ofthis savage mob?
"Oh, ye are hell's own children! Ye are worse than the Giaours, worsethan the Greeks, worse than the Muscovites! Ye do place your feet onthe heads of your rulers!"
The despair of the Sultan emboldened the Janissary still further.
"Sign this document, or thy son shall die in our hands!"
"Miserable cowards!" moaned the Sultan. "And cowards they also whoshould have defended him! Did not even his mother defend him? Was itnecessary to give him up?"
"He is in no danger," said Kara Makan; "nay, he is in a safe place. Itrests with thee to receive him back into thy arms;" and he shovedtowards him again the soiled and crumpled manuscript.
The Padishah, overcome by the shock of his own feelings, humiliated bythe sense of his own soft-heartedness, tottered to the wall, and whenhis groping hands came in contact with the cold marble he collapsedaltogether, and leaning against it, he pressed his burning temples tothe cold stone. The Janissar
y might now say whatever he would, theSultan neither listened to nor answered him.
At last the rough warrior, who had jumped so suddenly into power,shouted angrily to his comrades, who were cooling their heels outside,"Bring hither the prince!"
The Sultan heard the pattering of many footsteps in the corridoroutside, and the clashing of swords mingled with the murmuring ofvoices, but he did not look in that direction.
"Behold!" cried Kara Makan, advancing towards him, "here is thy son! Adrawn sword hovers above his head! Choose either to see thine own nameat the foot of that paper or his head at thy feet!"
Mahmoud trembled, but he answered nothing, nor did he turn his head.
"Write, or thy son dies!" cried a number of the Janissaries, suddenly.
Then a musical, familiar voice responded amidst the wild uproar:
"My father! hearken not unto them! Let them slay me if they be valiantenough, but chaffer not with thy slaves!"
Mahmoud looked up in astonishment at this well-known voice, and sawbefore him a handsome figure in the prince's garments and with a proudand majestic countenance; but that face, though familiar to him andvery dear, was not his son's face. Ah, it was Milieva!
The odalisk perceived that Mahmoud's features softened, that he lookedtenderly upon her; and as if she feared that the Sultan might yieldout of compassion towards her, she hastily turned her flaming face tothe Janissaries and exclaimed:
"Ye blood-thirsty dogs of Samound! who bay down the sun from theheavens, accomplish your bloody work! Forward, ye valiant heroes, withwhose backs alone the enemy is familiar, fall upon me in twos andthrees, if any one of you has not the courage to plunge his steelsingle-handed into the heart of the last scion of Omar's stock! Mydeath will not constrain the Sultan to bargain with you. Kill me whileyou have power over me, for if ever I have power over you I will notweep before you, as ye have seen Mahmoud and Selim weep; but I will soutterly destroy you that even he who wears a garment like unto yours,even he who shall mention your name, shall pronounce his own doom."
The infuriated rebels raised their flashing swords above the head ofthe presumptuous child at these menacing words; another moment and shewould have lain in the dust. But Mahmoud arose, spurned them asidefrom the prince, as they supposed him to be, and taking from the handsof Kara Makan the document and writing materials, signed his namebeneath it. Milieva seized the Sultan's hand to prevent him fromwriting, but he tenderly kissed her on the forehead and gentlywhispered, "Rather would I lose the whole world than thee," and withthat he placed in the hands of the Janissaries the subscribeddeath-warrants.
After obtaining these concessions, the rebels grew calmer, the Sultanproclaimed amnesty for all offenders, appointed the chief brawlers tohigh offices, and distributed money amongst them from the treasury.
Peace was thus restored. The Sultan and the sham prince returned tothe Seraglio, accompanied all the way by a vast throng, and the wholesquare by the fountains of Ibrahim was filled by the well-knownturbans of the Janissaries, who, in the joy of their insultingtriumph, shouted long life to the humiliated Padishah.
Mahmoud surveyed the huzzaing throng, where, man to man, they stood sotightly squeezed together that nothing could be distinguished but asea of heads. And the Sultan thought to himself, "What a fine thing itwould be to sweep all those heads away at one stroke!"