The Slaves of the Padishah

much smaller on a gradually diminishing scale, and whenever the name of Allah occurred, it was written in letters of gold. The Sultan’s name was always in red, the Kaiser’s in bright green letters. At the foot of it was the fantastic flourish which passed for the Sultan’s signature, which he would never have been able to write, but which was always engraved on the signet ring which he wore on his finger.

“Lo! here is the treaty,” said the Mufti, pointing to the document, “from which, by the command of Allah, I will now wash off the writing.”

Thereupon he drew across the document a large brush which he had previously dipped into a large basin of water in which sundry chemicals had been dissolved, and suddenly the writing began to fade away, the Sultan’s name written in red letters disappeared instantly from the parchment, then the lines written in black ink visibly grew dimmer. The Kaiser’s name written in bright green letters resisted more obstinately, but at last these also vanished utterly, and nothing more remained on the white parchment but the name of God written in letters of gold⁠—the corrosive acid was powerless against that.

Deep silence prevailed in the Divan, every eye was fixed with pious attention on the bleaching script.

Then, seizing a drawn sword, the Mufti raised it aloft and said:

“Having wiped away the writing which cast dishonour on the name of Allah, I now cut this document in four pieces with the point of my sword.”

And speaking thus, and while the imam stretched the parchment out with both hands, the Mufti cut it into four pieces with the sword he held in his hand, and placing the fragments in a pan, filled it up with naptha from a little crystal flask.

“Lo! now I burn thee before the face of Allah!”

Then he passed an ignited wax taper over the pan, whereupon the naptha instantly burst into flame, and the fragments of the torn document were hidden by the blue fire and the white smoke. Presently the flame turned to red, the smoke subsided, and the parchment was burnt to ashes.

“And now I scatter thy ashes that thou mayst be dispersed to nothing,” said the Mufti; and, taking the ashes, he flung them out of the palace window. The burnt paper rags, like black butterflies, descended gently through the air and were cast by the wind into the Bosphorus below.

No sooner was this accomplished than the pashas and viziers all leaped from their seats and drew their swords, swearing with great enthusiasm by the beard of the Prophet that they would not return their weapons to their sheaths till the crescent should shine on the top of the tower of the Church of St. Stephen at Vienna.

At that moment the door-curtains were thrust aside, and into the Divan rushed⁠—Feriz Beg.

The face of the youth was scarce recognisable, his turban was awry upon his forehead, his eyes, full of dull melancholy, stared stonily in front of him, his dress was untidy and dishevelled, his sword was girded to his side, but its handle was broken. Nobody had prevented him from rushing through the numerous halls into the Divan, and when he entered the ulemas parted before him in holy horror. When the youth reached the middle of the room, he stood there glancing round upon the viziers with folded arms, just as if he were counting how many of them there were, one by one they all stood up before him⁠—nay, even the Sultan did so, and awaited his words tremblingly.

Everyone in the East regards the insane with awe and reverence, and if a crazy fakir were to stop the greatest of the Caliphs in the way and say to him: “Dismount from thy horse, and change garments with me,” he would not dare to offer any opposition, but would fulfil his desire, for a strange spirit is in the man and God has sent it.

How will it be then when the terrible spirit of madness descends upon such a valiant warrior, such a distinguished soldier as Feriz Beg, who, when only six-and-twenty, had fought a hundred triumphant battles, and frequently put to shame the grey beards with his wisdom. And lo! suddenly he goes mad, and stops people in the street, and speaks such words of terror to them that they cannot sleep after it.

The youth, with quiet, gentle eyes and a sorrowful countenance passes in review the faces of all who are present, and heartrending was the expression of deep unutterable anguish in his voice when he spoke.

“Pardon me, high and mighty lords, for appearing among you without an invitation⁠—I who have now no business at all in the world anywhere. The world in which I lived is dead, it has withdrawn to Heaven far from me; all those who possessed my heart are now high above my head, and now, I have no heart and no feeling: neither love, nor valour, nor the desire of fame and glory; in my veins the blood flows backwards and forwards so that oftentimes I rush roaring against the walls round about me and tear carpets and pillows which have never offended me; and now again the blood stands still within me, my arteries do not beat at all, so that I lie stiff and staring like a dead man. I beg you all, ye high and mighty lords, who in a brief time will go to Paradise, to take a message from me thither.”

The high lords listened horror-stricken to the calm way in which the youth uttered these words, and they saw each other’s faces growing pale.

Feriz paid no attention to their horrified expressions.

“Tell to them whom I love, and with whom my heart is, to give me back my heart, for without it I am very poor. I perceive not the fragrance of the rose, wine is not sweet to my lips, neither fire nor the rays of the sun have any warmth, and the note of the bugle-horn