Be chesm, on my eyes be it."
"'Tis well, Mustapha. Slave," continued the pacha, addressing the Greek
who was in attendance, with his arms folded and his eyes cast down to
the ground; "coffee--and the strong water of the Giaour."
The pacha's pipe was refilled, the coffee was poured down their
respective throats, and the forbidden spirits quaffed with double
delight, arising from the very circumstance that they were forbidden.
"Surely there must be some mistake, Mustapha. Does not the Koran say,
that all that is good is intended for true believers; and is not this
good? How then can it be forbidden? Could it be intended for the
Giaours? May they, and their fathers' graves, be eternally defiled!"
"Amen!" replied Mustapha, laying down the cup, and drawing a deep sigh.
Mustapha was correct in his calculations. Before the pacha had finished
his pipe, the arrival of the story-teller was announced; and after
waiting a few minutes from decorum, which seemed to the impatient pacha
to be eternal, Mustapha clapped his hands, and the man was ushered in.
"Kosh amedeid! you are welcome," said the pacha, as the Kessehgou
entered the divan: he was a slight, elegantly moulded person, of about
thirty years of age.
"I am here in obedience to the will of the pacha," replied the man in a
most musical voice, as he salaamed low. "What does his highness require
of his slave Menouni?"
"His highness requires a proof of thy talent, and an opportunity to
extend his bounty.
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