The Circassian Slave | Page 8

through the hands of a
number of irresponsible slave merchants, who took but little heed of
her before she came to the bazaar."
"Doubtless, then, we may hardly expect to hear more concerning her."
"The reward you offered was munificent, excellency, but has brought
no response."
"You have not yet purchased for me those Georgians, good Mustapha,"
continued the monarch, after a few moments' pause, and probably
desiring to change a subject in which he felt that he was only too much
interested.
"Excellency, they are held at so high a price that I have refused to pay
it."
"Well, well, be discreet, and purchase shrewdly," said the Sultan,
resuming his pipe.
And in this manner the Sultan forgot his lovely slave, and removing the
mouth-piece of his pipe now and then, continued to question his slave
touching the matters that seemed to pertain to his department of the
household.
Poor Lalla! she had only her own unhappiness to brood upon as she sat
by some rippling fountain and watched its silvery jets and sparkling
drops, at times forgetting for a moment her sadness of heart in the
beauty that completely surrounded her; and then again, perhaps
mingling her tears with the fragrant blossoms that strewed her lap and

filled her hands. Alas! poor child! how it would have eased the quick
beating of thy heart if thou couldst have told the story of thy
unhappiness to some other confiding spirit.
The idiot boy would watch these tears, and at times he would wear a
fixed, vacant stare, as though he took no note of their meaning; and at
others, he would seem to comprehend their sorrowful import. When
this was the case, he would creep close to her side and lay his head by
her feet, and closing his eyes, remain as motionless as death. This
would at length arouse her from her unhappy mood, and she would turn
and gently caress the poor boy. Once when she had done this, she saw a
large tear drop steal out from beneath his closed eyelids, and fall across
his check. She rejoiced at this, for, while all others set him down as
without feeling, she saw that kindness at least would awaken his heart.
Lalla had been weeping, and now sat alone by a bed of fragrant flowers,
when one of those fairy-like children of the harem, scarcely older than
herself, came tripping with light and thoughtless steps towards her, and
detecting her saddened mood, kissed way the tears that still lingered
upon her cheeks, and binding a wreath of fresh and beautiful flowers
about her head, lay down in Lalla's lap and toyed with the stray buds,
looking up into her eyes with gentle love and tenderness.
How grateful were these delicate and beautiful manifestations of
feeling to the lonely-hearted slave.
CHAPTER III.
THE BEDOUIN ARABS.

It was one of those soft days, made up of nature's sweetest smiles, of
sunshine and gentle zephyrs, when sky, and sea, and shore were radiant,
and all the earth seemed glad, that a lone horseman sat with the reins
cast loosely upon the arching neck of his proud Arabian, on the plain
beyond the Armenian cemetery, in the suburbs of Constantinople. The
rider was dressed in the plainest attire of a quiet citizen, though the

material of his clothes and the few ornaments that were visible about
his person indicated their owner to be one who was no meagre
possessor of the riches of this world. Both rider and horse were as still
as though they had been carved in marble instead of being living
objects, save the quick, nervous motion, now and then, of the
full-blooded animal's ears, as some distant sound rose over the Turkish
city.
The Mussulman, as he sat there in a thoughtful and silent mood,
stroked slowly the jetty black beard that swept his breast, while he
seemed completely absorbed in contemplating the scene before him. He
had galloped at once from paved streets to the unfenced and
uncultivated desert that stretches away from the seven hills of Stamboul
to the very horizon. No wonder he paused there to gaze upon the
beauties that the eye might take in at a single glance.
Before him lay the city in all its oriental beauty, while, on every
sloping hillside about it, in every rural nook stood a dark nekropolis, or
city of the dead, shadowed by the close growing cypresses, beneath
whose shadows turbaned heads alone are permitted to rest. From out of
these, stretching its slender point away towards the blue heavens, rose
the fairy-like minaret, as if pointing whither had gone the spirits of the
faithful.
There, too, lay the incomparable Bosphorus, stretching away towards
the sea, and the beautiful isles in the sweet waters of Marmora,