Paradise exhales every intoxicating joy, every transient delight; it is full of flowers, and no sooner does one flower bloom than another instantly fades away; and this also is the fate of those flowers which are called damsels, for some of these likewise fade in a day, whilst others are culled to adorn the table of the favourite. This, I say, is the fate of all the flowers, and frequently in those huge porcelain vases which stand before Azrael’s bed, among its wreaths of roses and pomegranate flowers, one may see the head of an odalisque with drooping eyes who yesterday was as bright and merry as her comrades, the rose and pomegranate blossoms.
Oh, that woman is a veritable dream! Since he possessed her Hassan Pasha is no longer a man, but a piece of wax which receives the impression of her ideas. He hears nothing but her voice, and sees nothing but her. Already they are beginning to say that Hassan Pasha no longer recognizes a man ten feet off, and is no longer able to distinguish between the sound of the drum and the sound of the trumpet. And it is true, but whoever said so aloud would be jeopardizing his head, for Hassan would conceal his failings for fear of being deprived of the command of the army if they became generally known.
All the better does Yffim Beg see and hear, Yffim Beg who is constantly about Azrael; if he were not such an old and faithful favourite of Hassan Pasha he might almost regret that he has such good eyes and ears. But Azrael’s penetrating mind knows well enough that Yffim Beg’s head stands much more firmly on his shoulders than stand the heads of those whom Hassan Pasha sacrifices to her whims, so she flatters him, and it is all the worse for him that she does flatter.
Hassan Pasha, scarce waiting for the day to end and dismissing all serious business, sat him down in his curtained pinnace, known only to the dwellers on the fairy island, and had himself rowed across to his hidden paradise, where, amidst two hundred attendant damsels, Azrael, the loveliest of the living, awaits him in the hall of the fairy kiosk, round whose golden trellis work twine the blooms of a foreign sky.
Yffim Beg alone accompanies the Pasha thither.
The Governor, after embracing the odalisque, strolled thoughtfully through the labyrinth of fragrant trees where the paths were covered by coloured pebbles and a whole army of domesticated birds made their nests in the trees. Yffim Beg follows them at a little distance, and not a movement escapes his keen eyes, not so much as a sigh eludes his sharp ears; he keeps a strict watch on all that Azrael does and says.
In the midst of their walk—they hadn’t gone a hundred paces—a falcon rose before them from among the trees and perched on a poplar close by.
“Look, sir, what a beautiful falcon!” cried Yffim Beg.
Azrael laughed aloud and looked back.
“Oh, my good Beg, how canst thou take a wood-pigeon for a falcon? why it was a wood-pigeon.”
“I took good note of it, Azrael, and there it is sitting on that poplar.”
“Why, that’s better still—now he calls a nut-tree a poplar. Eh, eh! worthy Beg, thou must needs have been drinking a little to see so badly.”
“Well, that was what I fancied,” said the Beg, much perplexed, and for the life of him not perceiving the point of the jest. Why should the odalisque make a fool of him so?
“But look then, my love,” said Azrael, appealing to the Pasha; “thou didst see that bird fly away from the tree yonder, was it not a wood-pigeon flying from a nut-tree?”
Hassan saw neither the tree nor the bird, but he pretended he did, and agreed with the odalisque.
“Of course it was a wood-pigeon and a nut-tree.”
Yffim Beg did not understand it at all.
They went on further, and presently Yffim Beg again spoke.
“Shall we not turn, my master, towards that beautiful arcade of rose-trees?”
Azrael clapped her hands together in amazement.
“What! an arcade of roses! Where is it?”
“Turn in that direction and thou wilt see it.”
“These things! Why if he isn’t taking some sumach trees full of berries for an arcade of rose-trees!”
Hassan Pasha laughed. As for Yffim Beg he was lost in amazement—why did this damsel choose to jest with him in this fashion?
At that moment a cannon shot resounded from the Pest shore.
“Ah!” said the Pasha, stopping, “a cannon shot!”
“Yes, my master,” said Yffim, “from the direction of Pest.”
“From Pest indeed,” said Azrael, “it was from Buda; it was the signal for closing the gate.”
“I heard it plainly.”
“Excuse me, my good Beg, but thy hearing is as bad as thy sight. I am beginning to be anxious about thee. How could it be from the direction of Pest when the whole camp has crossed over to Buda?”
“Maybe a fresh host has arrived, which now awaits us.”
“Come,” cried Azrael, seizing Hassan’s hand, “we will find out at once who is right;” and she hastened with them to the shore of the island.
On the further bank the camp of Feriz Beg was visible; they were just pitching their tents on the side of the hills. A company of cavalry was just going down to the water’s-edge, at whose head ambled a slim young man whose features were immediately recognised, even at that distance, both by the favourite Beg and the favourite damsel.
Only Hassan saw nothing; in the distance everything was to him but a blur of black and yellow.
“Well, what did I say?” exclaimed Yffim Beg triumphantly; “that is the camp of Feriz Beg, and there is Feriz himself trotting in front of them.”
The words were scarce out of his mouth when the terrible thought occurred to him that Azrael had no business to be
