"Stop," cried the pacha, taking the pipe from his lips; "how long
before the break of day did that girl call her sister?"
"About half an hour, your sublime highness."
"Wallah! is that all she could tell of her story in half an
hour?--There's not a woman in my harem who would not say as much in five
minutes."
The pacha was so amused with the stories, that he never once felt
inclined to sleep; on the contrary, the Greek slave was compelled to
read every afternoon, until his legs were so tired that he could hardly
stand, and his tongue almost refused its office; consequently, they were
soon finished; and Mustapha not being able to procure any more, they
were read a second time. After which the pacha, who felt the loss of his
evening's amusement, became first puzzled how to pass away his time;
then he changed to hypochondriacism, and finally became so irritable,
that even Mustapha himself, at times, approached him with some degree of
awe.
"I have been thinking," observed the pacha, one morning, when under the
hands of Mustapha, in his original capacity, "that it would be as easy
for me to have stories told me, as the caliph in the Arabian Nights."
"I wonder not that your highness should desire it. Those stories are as
the opium to Theriarkis, filling the soul with visions of delight at the
moment, but leaving it palsied from over-excitement, when their effect
has passed away. How does your sublime highness propose to obtain your
end; and in what manner can your slave assist to produce your wishes?"
"I shall manage it without assistance; come this evening and you shall
see, Mustapha.
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