“And were he to spurn her from him—oh! your highness, it would kill her!” said the page, fixing his large, eloquent eyes upon the countenance of the grand vizier. “Consider his exalted rank and her humble position——”
“Doth she aspire to become his wife?” asked Ibrahim.
“She would be contented to serve him as his veriest slave,” responded Constantine, now strangely excited, “were he but to look kindly upon her: she would deem herself blest in receiving a smile from his lips, so long as it was bestowed as a reward for all the tender love she bears him.”
“Who is this man that is so fortunate as to have excited so profound an interest in the heart of one so beautiful?” demanded the grand vizier. “Name him to me—I will order him to appear before me—and, for thy sake, I will become an eloquent pleader on behalf of thy sister.”
Words cannot express the joy which flashed from the eyes of the page, and animated his handsome though softly feminine countenance, as, casting himself on his knees at the feet of Ibrahim Pasha, he murmured, “Great lord, that man whom my sister loves, and for whom she would lay down her life, is thyself!”
Ibrahim was for some minutes too much overcome by astonishment to offer an observation—to utter a word; while the page remained kneeling at his feet. Then suddenly it flashed to the mind of the grand vizier that the only humble abode which he had entered since he had become an officer holding a high rank in the service of Solyman, was that of his Greek emissary, Demetrius; and it now occurred to him, that there was a striking likeness between the young page and the beautiful Calanthe: whom he had seen on that occasion.
“Constantine,” he said, at length, “art thou, then, the brother of that Demetrius whom I dispatched some three months ago to Florence?”
“I am, my lord—and ’tis our sister Calanthe of whom I have spoken,” was the reply. “Oh! pardon my arrogance—my presumption, great vizier!” he continued, suddenly rising from his kneeling position, and now standing with his arms meekly folded across his breast—“pardon the arrogance, the insolence of my conduct,” he exclaimed; “but it was for the sake of my sister that I sought service in the household of your highness. I thought that if I could succeed in gaining your notice—if in any way I could obtain such favor in your eyes as to be admitted to speak with one so highly raised above me as thou art, I fancied that some opportunity would enable me to make those representations which have issued from my lips this day. How patiently I have waited that occasion, Heaven knows! how ardent have been my hopes of success, when from time to time your highness singled me out from amongst the numerous free pages of your princely household to attend upon your privacy—how ardent, I say, these hopes have been, your highness may possibly divine. And now, my lord, that I have succeeded in gaining your attention and pouring this secret into your ears, I will away to Calanthe and impart all the happiness that is in store for her. Though the flowers may hold up their heads high in the light of the glorious sun, yet she shall hold hers higher in the favor of your smile. Generous master,” he added, suddenly sinking his voice to a lower tone and reassuming the deferential air which he had partially lost in the excitement of speaking, “permit me now to depart.”
“This evening, Constantine,” said the grand vizier, fixing his dark eyes significantly upon the page, “let your sister enter the harem by the private door in the garden. Here is a key; I will give the necessary instructions to the female slaves to welcome her.”
Constantine received the key, made a low obeisance, and withdrew, leaving the grand vizier to feast his voluptuous imagination with delicious thoughts of the beauteous Calanthe.
CHAPTER LIII.
THE SULTANA VALIDA—THE THREE BLACK SLAVES.
In the meantime the Princess Aischa, the now neglected wife of the grand vizier, had repaired to the imperial seraglio to obtain an interview with her brother, Solyman the Magnificent. The sultan, as the reader has already learnt, was deeply attached to Aischa. Their mother, the sultana, or empress mother, who was still alive, occupied apartments in the seraglio. Her children entertained the greatest respect for her: and her influence over the sultan, who possessed an excellent heart, though his sway was not altogether unstained by cruelties, was known to be great.
It was therefore to her mother and her brother that the beautiful Aischa proceeded; and when she was alone with them in the Valida’s apartment, and removed her veil, they immediately noticed that she had been weeping. Upon being questioned relative to the cause of her sorrow, she burst into an agony of tears, and was for some time unable to reply. At length, half regretting that she had taken the present step, Aischa slowly revealed her various causes of complaint against the grand vizier.
“By Allah!” exclaimed the sultan, “the ungrateful Ibrahim shall not thus spurn and neglect the costly gift which I, his master, condescended to bestow upon him! What! when the Shah of Persia, the Khan of the Tartars, and the Prince of Karamania all sought thine hand, and dispatched embassadors laden with rich gifts to our court to demand thee in marriage, did I not send them back with cold words of denial to their sovereigns? And was it to bestow thee, my sister, on this ungrateful boy, who was so late naught save a dog of a Christian, ready to eat the dirt under our imperial feet,—was it to bestow thee on such an one as he, that I refused the offers of the Persian Shah! By the tomb of the prophet! this indignity shall cease!”
“Restrain your wrath, my son,” said the Sultana Valida. “Ibrahim must not be openly disgraced: the effects of his punishment would redound on our beloved Aischa. No—rather intrust this affair to me; and fear not that I shall fail in compelling this haughty pasha to return to the arms of his wife—ay, and implore her pardon for his late neglect.”
“Oh! dearest mother, if thou canst accomplish this,” exclaimed Aischa, her countenance becoming animated with joy and her heart palpitating with hope, “thou wouldst render me happy indeed.”
“Trust to me, daughter,” replied the Sultana Valida. “In the meantime seek not to learn my intentions; but, on thy return home, send me by some trusty slave thy pass-key to the harem. And thou, my son, wilt lend me thine imperial signet-ring for twelve hours!”
“Remember,” said the sultan, as he drew the jewel from his finger, “that he who wears that ring possesses a talisman of immense power—a sign which none to whom it is shown dares disobey; remember this, my mother, and use it with caution.”
“Fear not, my dearly beloved son,” answered the Sultana Valida, concealing the ring in her bosom. “And now, Aischa, do you return to the palace of your haughty husband, who ere twelve hours be passed, shall sue for pardon at thy feet.”
The sultan and Aischa both knew that their mother was a woman of powerful intellect and determined character; and they sought not to penetrate into the secret of her intentions.
Solyman withdrew to preside at a meeting of the divan; and Aischa returned to the palace of the grand vizier, attended by the slaves who had waited for her in an anteroom leading to her mother’s apartments.
It was now late in the afternoon, and the time for evening prayer had arrived ere the Sultana Valida received the pass-key to Ibrahim Pasha’s harem. But the moment it was conveyed to her, she summoned to her presence three black slaves, belonging to the corps of the bostanjis, or gardeners, who also served as executioners, when a person of rank was to be subjected to the process of bowstring, or when any dark deed was to be accomplished in silence and with caution. Terrible appendages to the household of Ottoman sultans were the black slaves belonging to that corps—like snakes, they insinuated themselves, noiselessly and ominously into the presence of their victims, and it were as vain to preach peace to the warring elements which God alone can control, as to implore mercy at the hands of those remorseless Ethiopians!
To the three black slaves did the Sultana Valida issue her commands; and to the eldest she intrusted Solyman’s signet-ring and the pass-key which Aischa had sent her. The slaves bowed three times to the empress mother—laid thei
r hands on their heads to imply that they would deserve decapitation if they neglected the orders they had received—and then withdrew. There was something terribly sinister in their appearance, as they retired noiselessly but rapidly through the long, silent and darkened corridors of the imperial harem.
It was night—and the moon shone softly and sweetly upon the mighty city of Constantinople, tipping each of its thousand spires and pinnacles as with a star.
Ibrahim Pasha, having disposed of the business of the day, and now with his imagination full of the beautiful Calanthe, hastened to the anteroom, or principal apartment of the harem.
The harem, occupying one complete wing of the vizier’s palace, consisted of three stories. On the ground floor were the apartments of the Princess Aischa and her numerous female dependents. These opened from a spacious marble hall; and at the folding-doors leading into them, were stationed two black dwarfs, who were deaf and dumb. Their presence was not in any way derogatory to the character of Aischa, but actually denoted the superior rank of the lady who occupied those apartments in respect to the numerous females who tenanted the rooms above. As she was the sister of the sultan, Ibrahim dared not appear in her presence without obtaining her previous assent through the medium of one of the mutes, who were remarkably keen in understanding and conveying intelligence by means of signs. A grand marble staircase led from the hall to the two floors containing the apartments of the ladies of the harem; and thus, though Aischa dwelt in the same wing as those females, her own abode was as distinct from theirs as if she were the tenant of a separate house altogether.
On the first floor there was a large and magnificently furnished room in which the ladies of the harem were accustomed to assemble when they chose to quit the solitude of their own chambers for the enjoyment of each other’s society. The ceiling of the anteroom; as this immense apartment was called, was gilt entirely over; it was supported by twenty slender columns of crystal; and the splendid chandeliers which were suspended to it, diffused a soft and mellow light, producing the most striking effects on that mass of gilding, those reflecting columns, and the wainscoted walls inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and with ivory of different colors. A Persian carpet three inches thick was spread upon the floor. Along two opposite sides ran continuous sofas, supported by low, white marble pillars, and covered with purple figured velvet fringed with gold. In the middle of this gorgeous apartment was a large table, shaped like a crescent, and spread with all kinds of preserved fruits, confectionery, cakes, and delicious beverages of a non-alcoholic nature.
The room was crowded with beauteous women when the presence of Ibrahim was announced by a slave. There were the fair-complexioned daughters of Georgia—the cold, reserved, but lovely Circassians—the warm and impassioned Persians—the voluptuous Wallachians—the timid Tartars—the dusky Indians—the talkative Turkish ladies—beauties, too, of Italy, Spain, and Portugal—indeed, specimens of female perfection from many, many nations. Their various styles of beauty, and their characteristic national dresses, formed a scene truly delightful to gaze upon: but the grand vizier noticed none of the countenances so anxiously turned toward him to mark on which his eyes would settle in preference; and the ladies noiselessly withdrew, leaving their master alone with the slave in the anteroom.
Ibrahim threw himself on a sofa, and gave some hasty instructions to the slave, who immediately retired. In about a quarter of an hour he came back, conducting into the anteroom a lady veiled from head to foot. The slave then withdrew altogether; and Ibrahim approached the lady, saying, “Calanthe—beauteous Calanthe! welcome to my palace.”
She removed her veil; and Ibrahim fixed his eager eyes upon the countenance thus disclosed to him; but he was immediately struck by the marvelous resemblance existing between his page Constantine, and the charming Calanthe. It will be remembered that when he called, in a mean disguise, at the abode of Demetrius, he saw Calanthe for the first time, and only for a short period; and though he was even then struck by her beauty, yet the impression it made was but momentary: and he had so far forgotten Calanthe as never to behold in Constantine the least resemblance to any one whom he had seen before.
But now that Calanthe’s countenance burst upon him in all the glory of its superb Greek beauty, that resemblance struck him with all the force of a new idea; and he was about to express his astonishment that so wondrous a likeness should subsist between brother and sister, when the maiden sunk at his feet, exclaiming, “Pardon me, great vizier; but Constantine and Calanthe are one and the same thing.”
“Methought the brother pleaded with marvelous eloquence on behalf of his sister,” said Ibrahim, with a smile; and raising Calanthe from her suppliant posture, he led her to a seat, gazing on her the while with eyes expressive of intense passion.
“Your highness,” observed the maiden, after a short pause, “has heard from my own lips how profound is the attachment which I have dared to conceive for you—how great is the admiration which I entertain for the brilliant powers of your intellect. To be with thee, great Ibrahim, will I abandon my country, friends—ay, and even creed, shouldst thou demand that concession; for in thee—and in thee only—are all my hopes of happiness now centered!”
“And those hopes shall not be disappointed, dearest Calanthe!” exclaimed Ibrahim, clasping her in his arms. “But a few minutes before you entered this room a hundred women—the choicest flowers of all climes—were gathered here; and yet I value one smile on thy lips more than all the tender endearments that those purchased houris could bestow. For thy love was unbought—it was a love that prompted thee to attach thyself to me in a menial capacity——”
The impassioned language of the grand vizier was suddenly interrupted by the opening of the door, and three black slaves glided into the anteroom—half crouching as they stole along—and fixing on the beauteous Calanthe eyes, the dark pupils of which seemed to glare horribly from the whites in which they were set.
“Dogs! what signifies this intrusion?” exclaimed Ibrahim Pasha, starting from the sofa, and grasping the handle of his scimiter.
The chief the three slaves uttered not a word of reply, but exhibited the imperial signet, and at the same time unrolled from the coil which he had hitherto held in his hand a long green silken bowstring. At that ominous spectacle Ibrahim fell back, his countenance becoming ashy pale, and his frame trembling with an icy shudder from head to foot.
“Choose between this and her,” whispered the slave, in a deep tone, as he first glanced at the bowstring and then looked toward Calanthe, who knew that some terrible danger was impending, but was unable to divine where or when it was to fall.
“Merciful Allah!” exclaimed the grand vizier; and throwing himself upon the floor, he buried his face in his hands.
In another moment Calanthe was seized and gagged, before even a word or a scream could escape her lips; but Ibrahim heard the rustling of her dress as she unavailingly struggled with the monsters in whose power she was. The selfish ingrate! he drew not his scimiter to defend her—he no longer remembered all the tender love she bore him—but, appalled by the menace of the bowstring, backed by the warrant of the sultan’s signet ring, he lay groveling on the rich Persian carpet, giving vent to his alarms by low and piteous groans.
Then he heard the door once more close as softly as possible: he looked up—glared with wild anxiety around—and breathed more freely on finding himself alone! For the Ethiopians had departed with their victim! Slowly rising from his supine posture, Ibrahim approached the table, filled a crystal cup with sherbet to the brim, and drank the cooling beverage, which seemed to go hissing down his parched throat—so dreadful was the thirst which the horror of the scene just enacted had produced.
Then the sickening as well as maddening conviction struck to his very soul, that though the envied and almost worshiped vizier of a mighty empire—having authority of life and death over millions of human beings, and able to dispose of the governments and patronage of huge provinces and mighty cities—
he was but a miserable, helpless slave in the eyes of another greater still—an ephemeron whom the breath of Solyman the Magnificent could destroy! And overcome by this conviction, he threw himself on the sofa, bursting into an agony of tears—tears of mingled rage and woe. Yes; the proud, the selfish, the haughty renegade wept as bitterly as ever even a poor, weak woman was known to weep!
*****
How calm and beautiful lay the waters of the Golden Horn beneath the light of that lovely moon which shone so chastely and so serenely above, as if pouring its argent luster upon a world where no evil passions were known—no hearts were stained with crime—no iniquity of human imagining was in the course of perpetration. But, ah! what sound is that which breaks on the silence of the night! Is it the splash of oars? No—for the two black slaves who guide yon boat which has shot out from the shore into the center of the gulf, are resting on the slight sculls—the boat itself, too, is now stationary—and not a ripple is stirred up by its grotesquely-shaped prow. What, then, was that sound?
’Twas the voice of agony bursting from woman’s throat; and the boat is about to become the scene of a deed of horror, though one of frequent—alas! too frequent—occurrence in that clime, and especially on that gulf.
The gag has slipped from Calanthe’s mouth; and a long loud scream of agonizing despair sweeps over the surface of the water—rending the calm and moonlit air—but dying away ere it can raise an echo on either shore. Strong are the arms and relentless is the black monster who has now seized the unhappy Greek maiden in his ferocious grasp—while the luster of the pale orb of night streams on that countenance lately radiant with impassioned hope, but now convulsed with indescribable horror.
Again the scream bursts from the victim’s lips; but its thrilling, cutting agony is interrupted by a sudden plunge—a splash—a gurgling and a rippling of the waters—and the corpse of the murdered Calanthe is borne toward the deeper and darker bosom of the Bosporus.
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