On arriving at the collector's house, I found the Aga awaiting me.
This man inspired me with great interest. I looked upon him, residing
in his lone tower, the last of a once wealthy and powerful race now
steeped in poverty, as a sort of master of Ravenswood in a Wolf's
crag. At first he was bland and ceremonious; but on learning that I
had lived long in the interior of society in Damascus and Aleppo, and
finding that the interest with which he inspired me was real and not
assumed, he became expansive without lapsing into familiarity, and
told me his sad tale, which I would place at the service of the gentle
reader, could I forget the stronger allegiance I owe to the
unsolicited confidence of an unfortunate stranger.
When I spoke of the renegade, he pretended not to know whom I meant;
but I saw, by a slight unconscious wink of his eye, that knowing him
too well, he wished to see and hear no more of him. As he was rising
to take leave, a step was heard creaking on the stairs, and on turning
in the direction of the door, I saw the red and white checked turban
of the renegade emerging from the banister; but no sooner did he
perceive the Aga, than, turning round again, down went the red checked
turban out of sight.
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