When the flowers begin to burst open millions of fire-flies appear by the lake—attracted perhaps, by the perfume; possibly they are born with the flower, so that each may be fated to take delight in the other. Now the tremendous calyx, with a light green colour like diamond glitter, bends to and fro. Nature's artistic hand has ornamented its crown with precious stones, for thousands of dewdrops, those stars of floral creation, are glittering from the petals, while the fire-flies are continually flitting from one leaf to another, thus forming a fairy-like walk; on the majestic flower glistens the sovereign fire-fly, the magnificent avra, the lenten insect, on whose glittering colours the petal shades are thrown. The night is moonless, but rich in stars; the surface of the Morinka lake is covered with a green leaf carpet, on which many little stars are shining as if in heaven above. The dense banana grove that surrounds the enchanting lake gives it the appearance of a temple encircled by thousands of green columns. And the surface of the lake forms a magnificent altar, whence, from the gigantic calyx, the most delicate sacrifice, the most delightful odour, rises to heaven. By the sides of the lake, on a grassy plot, the Indian women solemnise the sacrificial rites. Thousands of the most beautiful virgins and childless women, placed in three circles, dance about and sing praises to the Great Spirit who brought forward the budding season of the water-flowers, and who awakes the feeling of the slumbering heart. Whoever saw them from a distance would imagine them to be fairy circles. Each woman had a chain of glittering gems round her neck. These in fact consisted of many hundred Brazilian insects, which the Indian women strung upon thread and used as neck-ornaments. The colours of the insects were continually changing from green and marigold to a ruby hue, and vice versâ, and surpassed in brilliancy the most precious stones.

In the midst of the circle stood Queen Evoeva. She was distinguished by her wearing three insect chains on her neck. Round her waist, too, was arranged a broad girdle, ornamented with many dazzling insects; their light was not, however, sufficiently great to allow one to see the shadow cast by this charming woman. In her dark hair there glittered a splendid "lampyris," whose moon-shaped light was thrown upon the lovely creature's face, to which it imparted a pale serenity.

Could one have seen those women one would have imagined they were fairies. But who would have presumed to approach them? Would not the Great Spirit have been enraged at the breaking of a divine command?

Indeed an Indian would not have dared to do this, even were he an enemy. A Spaniard, however, does it, though a friend.

All of a sudden wild noises of men were heard in the banana groves; the women, frightened, rushed into one group. "Men, it seems," cried they, "have broken into the Holy Grove on the eve of the Morinka fête." It was Valdivia with one hundred and fifty of his comrades. When Queen Evoeva recognised the Spaniards she stepped forward with stately tread, and boldly asked Valdivia how they dared appear on the sacred ground while the Morinka fête was being held, and when every man was required to keep at a respectful distance. Valdivia's reply was to embrace the queen's beautiful form, and to implant a kiss upon her cheek, burning with fury. "Ah!" shouted the Indians, "our queen has been kissed by a strange man—a kiss has reached her lip on the eve of Morinka! The kiss of a strange man!" The Indian women madly attacked Valdivia and his comrades and began a severe struggle for her majesty. Here, then, was a conflict between feeble, naked women, unarmed, and strong mailed men. With nails and teeth did the former fight, like wild beasts, considering but little the wounds which they themselves received. The Spaniards were obliged to have recourse to arms against those enraged attacking ones, and before long red streams were flowing towards the Morinka lake—streams of women's blood. But Evoeva was freed from Valdivia's grasp, and one moment gave her time to jump into the lake, whose surface was covered with huge nymphean leaves. These clod themselves upon her and did not part asunder again. Hundreds upon hundreds of women followed the queen's example, throwing themselves into the lake to escape their pursuers. The Spaniards saw none rise to the surface; the nymphic leaves floated there as before. But the women swam under the smooth leaf-carpet to the river's mouth; the river emptied itself into the lake, and farther up formed a waterfall ten fathoms in height; across this the women proceeded. Those only escaped who were neither dashed by the rocks nor suffocated by the waterfall.

Bria Rocca was until late evening pursuing a jaguar—which he contrived to reach and kill—on the wild plains. It was nightfall when he returned with his men and reached the banks of the Mapocho river, where they encamped.

Bria Rocca led his horse to the river to drink. The noble animal had been moving about quickly the whole day and was very thirsty; but as soon as it bent its head towards the water it retreated and galloped to its master, shaking all over; then, tossing its mane from side to side, it broke into a violent snorting. The king thought that the horse had smelt an alligator in the stream, and conducted it to another part; but she manifested the old signs of aversion. "There is blood in the water, Bria Rocca, woman's blood; your horse dreads it, and that is why he refuses to drink." It was now midnight, but still a light seemed to shine from the forest. "Look how soon it gets light now!" said the Indians, awaking from their dreams. "It is not daybreak, nor is it the flames of a burning forest." The king's town was in flames, and beneath that spot where the sky seemed brightest blazed the royal palace. The strangers had set it on fire! Towards daybreak there was great commotion in the grove. At first a few crying children rushed thither and awoke the slumbering camp. These informed his majesty that the white strangers had disturbed their dreams and made fire on the roofs of their homes, and that those who could not run away were slain. Then came other messengers to Bria Rocca, and the heads of slaughtered women and children could be seen floating down the river. These could not speak to the king, but sufficient could be gathered from their silent communication.

Bria Rocca stood on the river bank, resting on his axe and looking at the floating human remains. All around the following raving noise was heard, "It is all up with Matocka town; the dreaded of the Guelen mountain have by stealth broken into it and bombarded it with metal dragons; they have killed the children, carried away the women, and burnt down the king's palace."

The King himself replied quickly, "If the Great Spirit desires that Bria Rocca should bathe his feet in blood, and should warm himself at his town's flame, Bria Rocca is silent and refrains from shedding tears."

The old people told his majesty that the white men from the Papua and Omagua tribes had secretly collected in force in the Guelen mountain, and during the Morinka fête, when all had withdrawn to the forest, had attacked every village of Bria Rocca and destroyed them; and that Valdivia was proclaimed master of the country. The King quietly replied, "If the Great Spirit desires that Bria Rocca's people should leave their kingdom, Bria Rocca refrains from shedding tears."

Lastly, there became visible on the Mapocko river rush-boats, on which the women who had escaped, with their tiny children—many of whom, that possibly life might again appear, were still pressed to their mother's breasts, dead from the strokes of the enemy—lay terror-stricken and furious.

Now approached the king's wife, the beautiful Evoeva. Her black hair hung loosely over her face in order that her shame might be covered. The women grasped Bria Rocca's hand with great fury, pointing to Evoeva.

"Look," said they, "here is your wife; her cheeks were kissed by a strange man."

Bria Rocca's lips paled, and every vein on his temples became swollen; yet the war-lance did not move in his hand. He resignedly answered the women, "If the Great Spirit desires that I shall not behold Evoeva any more Bria Rocca is content and never will look at her again."

Whilst saying these words he covered with a skin the wife who knelt at his feet, and turned away from her. The Indians seized their arms and, beating upon their shields, vowed vengeance upon the strangers. Bria Rocca approached them softly, and said:

"Let your arms rest; this day we have lost, let our enemies gain it; it is to-day the fight of kings against beggars whose lances are weak as straw. Let them have happiness, splendid towns, fine women and children, and abundance of earthly treasure. At present they have nothing to give us in return for this evening's gift. Let us wait until they have."

Ten years have elapsed since Bria Rocca's palace was burnt, and since then many changes have taken place in Chili. Valdivia has occupied Chili in the name of Pizarro; then he goes over to the king's side and helps to overthrow Pizarro, and as a reward receives the Viceroyalty of Chili. A portion of the province which he had first conquered was named Valdivia, and also that river from which Bria Rocca's horse refused to drink. The splendid city too, which was built on the site of the ancient bamboo town of Bria Rocca, was named Valdivia. This Valdivia gave quite a different appearance to the whole district. Stone-made roads, constructed by European adventurers, were laid, and from town to town people have ploughed and gathered in the earth's produce, and have exposed the precious metal of the mountains, just as if they were really quite at home. Nobody has disturbed them in their work; the copper-coloured persons have disappeared, not a sound of them can be heard in the forest, nor a trace of their footsteps observed on the ground—like a crowd of grasshoppers before a seven-days' rain have they become entirely destroyed.

Perhaps they have gone up to the mountains or into the wastes of the interior, where the Golden Land has already sprung into existence, and concerning which so many wonderful stories have been related to adventurous Spaniards about the monks Cabeça de Vaca and Niça: where wild people were walking about in civilised clothing, where the towns were laid out with emerald and turquoise, and whose fort Cibolla was ten miles long.

Some people who tried to find out this remarkable land, never returned from it. In the time of Valdivia the Spanish imagination became excited about this El Dorado. If any wondered how Bria Rocca's people disappeared, without leaving a trace behind them, they could console themselves with the fact that they were now very happy, and that they had gone in search of brethren to Cibolla town, where they were now wallowing in milk and honey. Although they wondered why they could not follow the Indians, the Spaniards now quietly settled in Chili; they have ceased to dig trenches round the town, and to post guards along the roads; they no longer teach their bloodhounds to scent out the two-footed wild animal; there is peace and tranquillity in the whole country. The merchants count out their money and the great lords lavishly spend it; pretty women walk about in silks, and little children ride on their fathers' knees. Yes, yes! the Spaniards have everything—riches, happiness, and splendid towns, also beautiful women and tiny, chattering offspring. . . . .

"Let us wait until they can repay us," said Bria Rocca.

A new lake would be found, and the waterfalls would have cut for themselves new passages. Still, Bria Rocca's people have taken refuge there with their herds and flocks, whilst the eager searchers for El Dorado have failed to discover the way to fairyland. The Chilian volcano has rested for a hundred years, and only a few craters have shown from a distance that he too was one of those gigantic bombarders of the heavens who now rests conquered. But perhaps he sleeps merely—such great beings dream long. Whilst, then, he is thus dreaming, the Southern voluptuous plants have entwined themselves round about him, and every kind of grass and tree derives nourishment from his presence; at his foot a forest of red cedar has formed, and on his head tamarisk bushes live and flourish. From the autumn greenery which covers the mountain, dark caverns peep out. These are the mouths of ancient lava-streams by which one might get at the mountain's heart. According to the stories of the Omagua tribes, it was through such that the Aruacans made their way to the Cordillera interior. There were always a few adventurers who attempted to penetrate these caverns in search of the Golden Land, but they, as a rule, never returned, and nobody troubled about them. Once, however, two monks, accompanied by an Indian who understood the language, left Sant-Jago in search of this mysterious country. Had all three disappeared, no one would have made much ado; but it so happened that the Indian returned soon afterwards without the monks. He was interrogated on the subject, but he merely said that his comrades had perished—in what way he declined to tell. He had sworn by the great teeth of Mahu-Mahu that he never should divulge the secret. Valdivia had him placed on the bench of torture, and it appears that he felt the thumb-screwing instruments, and boiling oil had greater effect upon him than the big teeth of Mahu-Mahu, and so he promised to disclose everything. According to his story he and his comrades, after they had provided themselves with torchlights, entered the Chillon cavern, where, after proceeding a few hundred yards, they discovered on the moist soil the footprints of Aruacans. They knew them to be theirs, for they were marked by india-rubber heels, worn as a rule by the Aruacans to protect them from serpents. As they advanced further the cavern got wider in extent, and from its steep sides great rocks stood out. The descent, which became steeper and steeper as they advanced, was crossed by a stream that one could hear but not see from the cavern's mouth. Over this stream a bamboo suspension bridge become visible later on, similar to that which the Aruacans had erected over the Matocka river.

The volcanic footpaths got more and more difficult to tread upon, and at times he and his companions were obliged to climb upon the rocks, as if they were trying to ascend a mountain.

Finally the opening became so narrow that two men could hardly walk through it, and there they reached a spot that seemed hollowed out beneath. They advanced further when the earth gave way, and they all fell down to the cavern depths. It was a trap from which there was no escape. After they had for a few hours vainly endeavoured to rise from this pitfall, they suddenly heard sounds of voices, and—recognised the Aruacans. They recognised them from the wool which covered their bodies. The Indians pulled them up with long ropes, blindfolded them, and bound their hands behind their backs, driving them on between two tough trees. Ere long the echo from the narrow passage ceased, and the atmosphere revealed to them that they were in the open air. When their eyes were unfolded they saw they were in the Chillon crater. It was a dreadful smoking valley, with a funnel-like descent, whose sides were then just as bare as when the last eruption had taken place.

All around there were red-brown stone piles, quite burnt out—dead for ever—on which no plant could live. Not even a piece of moss or of lichen was to be seen upon them.

Lower down the valley got compressed, and on its sides numberless small holes, like wasps' nests, were visible. Neither grass nor flower could be observed anywhere—nothing of that kind, indeed, but a few pale green trees scattered about at intervals. These were upas-trees, in the poison of whose sap the Indians dip their spears. Every surrounding plant had been killed by their exhalations, so that they alone grew in the valley.

On the sides of this dreadful valley a wide, hollow border was to be seen; it represented the last active volcano; in appearance it resembled the gallery of a great amphitheatre. On this gallery stood the Aruacan fathers with Bria Rocca. Under it was formed a sort of semicircle, where many large china jugs might be seen placed near one another, whose mouths were for the most part covered with india-rubber; some were open. As the captives were brought before Bria Rocca two such jugs were procured, and the two monks, tied to a couple of columns, were then killed with two long axes, similar to those with which the Aruacans cut the hevea-trees. Their blood poured out into the jugs; their bodies were thrown down the precipice. After this the Indians carried away the jugs with the blood and placed them near the others. Soon thereafter numerous serpents peeped out of holes in the walls: in appearance they were like cigars. A traveller who does not know this serpent might be deceived, and, imagining it a cigar, pick it up—which would mean death. One bite from this serpent is fatal. These dreaded reptiles crept in thousands into the jugs in which the murdered Spaniards' blood had been placed, and when they filled them two Indians approached and carefully put two india-rubber covers over them, so as to prevent their exit.

They meant at first to kill the priest's dusky guide, but Bria Rocca said that black blood was useless, and they let him go. But he had to swear by the great Mahu Mahu that he should not tell a soul what he had seen; if he did tell, the Aruacans would come for him in tens of thousands, and they would not be particular as to who was white and who black. So they let him go through the same way as he and the monks came in, and he could not say how he got out of the crater.

Of course, nobody believed a word of the Indian's story, and they believed that he himself killed the monks and invented a fable. It was all a tissue of lies, they thought, and the unfortunate man was pinned to a stake outside Sant-Jago.

The Indian's story had long been forgotten in Chili. Valdivia returned with glory and overwhelmed with distinction from Peru, and settled down to live peacefully in the town which bore his name. He dispersed his troops amongst the various towns and settlements, and he had hardly more than three hundred soldiers left with him. These, moreover, got out of practice, as they seldom had occasion to handle the gun.

All of a sudden, on a still and quiet night, a wild noise awoke the peaceful inhabitants of Valdivia. Frantic shouting came from the surrounding hills, and all around the farm-buildings were set on fire; the faces of hundreds of people were distinguished by the flames. "The Aruacans have returned!" were the words, distractedly uttered, that sounded through the town, and that also reached Valdivia's palace. Yes, the Aruacans have returned—to ask for an explanation regarding the presumption of building a town over the graves of their ancestors; and Bria Rocca was there to inquire who it was that killed thousands of his subjects, and also who it was that kissed the cheek of Evoeva. The attack was so sudden and unexpected that there was no time to report the great danger to the adjoining town; and before Valdivia had time to draw his sword all the hills surrounding the town were occupied by thousands of the Red Indians. There was only one outlet from the town through which the Spaniards might have escaped, and it seemed as if the Indians had purposely left that unguarded. The Spaniards were not, however, to be led into a trap, rightly thinking that it would have been folly to throw themselves upon thousands of wild and enraged Indians, who would have despatched them with their poisonous spears; they, therefore, drew up their guns on the fortification walls. How, possibly, can the simple arrows of the Indians compete with such weapons?

The Indians occupied all the adjoining hills, and had they had guns in their possession they could very easily have fired into the town.

Valdivia's men looked quietly down from the rampart walls, for they observed that the Indians had no storming engines with which they might attack the stronghold.

Bria Rocca's tent was erected on a hill concealed from view by huge cocoa-palms, from which Valdivia's palace could be seen. At the Indian chief's command the brown leaves of eight trees were pulled down, and the trunks of the trees were cut open to the extent of several feet in width; then were tied to their tops long ropes of sap-wood, the other end of the ropes being twisted round a potter's wheel which was made to turn by means of long rods. Under the influence of these ropes the trees got quite bent and their tops touched the ground. Then the Indians placed some strange-looking vessels into the hollows of the trunks; the mouths of these vessels were covered over with india-rubber. Bria Rocca next pulled his axe from his belt and cut the ropes in twain. The palm trunks flew up with great force, and with a tremendous noise the jugs that had been placed in the tree-hollows shot into the market-place of Valdivia. Each tree discharged its dangerous bombs as did the others. Oh, what a curse those bombs proved! Thousands upon thousands of poisonous serpents escaped from the broken jugs and, maddened by white man's blood, rushed at the people in every direction. Guns were of no avail when dealing with these cursed little monsters. The bloodthirsty, devil-moved insects crept up the legs of the horses, and getting beneath the armour killed their riders. They swarmed all over the streets and streamed into the houses, killing the women and children and those who could not fly from them. In one hour's time Valdivia had more dead than fighting men. Valdivia himself became desperate and mounted his horse, and, accompanied by a hundred horsemen, proceeded towards the gate leading to Sant-Jago, that gate which the Indians had left unguarded. He heard the triumphant shouts of the Indians and saw before him the ancient forest shooting out flames in hundreds of directions. He was surrounded! The enraged Indians followed him up behind, and in front the burning forest cut off the means of escape. His companions rode away in alarm; they preferred to die fighting, not in this manner. Valdivia thought it best to boldly cut his way through the burning forest, and so effect his escape—or perish in the attempt. The Indians pursued him to the edge of the forest, but seeing how boldly he galloped through the flames they nearly all held back there. One man only attempted to pursue him further—namely, Bria Rocca. The Spanish horses on which both were mounted did not fear the fire. Burning foliage fell over them and little embers glowed under their feet; still the two horses wildly plunged forward, step for step. Valdivia did not even look back, and he did not, therefore, observe the Indian chief when he threw a long harpoon spear at him. This spear entered his body, and when it was pulled out the heart came away along with it.

The spot on which Valdivia stood was strewn with the charred ruins of the burned town, and there—on that gloomy space—Bria Rocca, after ten years' mourning, held a feast in honour of the injured Goddess Morinka. He sent for his wife Evoeva, whom he had thrust away from him, and upon whose countenance he had not gazed for ten years; and when he had embraced her he presented her with a tambourine and a flute of bone, as well as a cup filled with native wine. Then he said: "This is a day of great rejoicing, Evoeva. To-day you must sing, drink and dance. Strike upon this tambourine, blow the flute, empty the cup—the tambourine is made from Valdivia's skin, the flute is his bone, the cup his head."

Up to the present day the Aruacan's country has remained unconquered.

BIZEBAN

The art of manufacturing these bizebans is very simple, and at Gozond there are several hundred professors of it who find it lucrative enough. From poor people, who possess families, they buy children, at ten or twenty rupees apiece—mere infants a twelvemonth old. As yet, of course, they cannot talk. These men begin by pouring into the ears of the little creatures a fluid prepared from herbs, which renders them absolutely deaf. Two-thirds of the children die under the process. Those which survive are valuable articles of commerce. Having lost their hearing they can, of course, no longer learn to talk, and they remain dumb, as well as deaf, for life. These children, as they grow up, see the world around them but cannot comprehend what they see. Their native intelligence cannot become developed: they are like human beings from whom the soul has been snatched. These soulless boys are very valuable articles in the seraglio. They are always hovering around the Sultan. In the most secret chambers they are in attendance; the most valuable documents are entrusted to their care; and beneath their eyes passes all the private correspondence between the Sultan and his confidential advisers. They do not hear a syllable of any conversation—of such a thing as speech they have no conception. How can they imagine what those peculiarly shaped letters mean which their eyes behold? There is no corresponding knowledge or intelligence within them which would render this possible; and the few things which they both see and understood, they could not communicate to other people.

Such were the unfortunate bizebans. Nevertheless they were dressed in purple and silk robes. Long chains of pearls hung from their neck, and they were fed upon what overflowed from the Sultan's own table. In all respects they were treated with especial consideration—like monkeys or parrots which are kept as playthings.

These creatures, deprived of soul, know how to do one or two things, but no more. They understand that they must remain on guard at a certain post and not move thence; they can carry a certain article to a certain place; they can cut the Sultan's nails to beautiful fine points and adjust his turban—such is the utmost limit of their accomplishments. They are indeed like dogs, taught to fetch and carry things for their masters in their mouth.

Before Sultan Mustapha II. ascended the throne he already possessed a number of bizebans. One of these was his especial favourite—a boy who was quite superior to the rest and who excited more sympathy; for in his big, dreamy eyes so much sentiment and intelligence was visible that it seemed sad that he could not be taught to feel and think like a human being. Like other bizebans he had no name. Why should a bizeban have a name? He won't hear it even if it is addressed to him.

As a rule the bizeban also fulfilled the office of eunuch, and walked freely into the seraglio. Prince Mustapha used often, by the hand of his pet bizeban, to send to his sister, the beautiful Saliha, presents of a certain kind of very choice melon which only grew in the Sultan's garden and concerning which fruit a very sad story was told.

One day, noticing that one melon was missing from the beds, the Sultan had all his gardeners tortured that the culprit might confess his theft. Then, when this experiment failed, he had seven of them cut open. To no purpose; but when the eighth was ripped up fragments of the melon were revealed, which was very fortunate, as a few hundred other servants would, but for this, have been treated likewise.

The lovely Saliha was a very kind-hearted creature. She thought her brother's bizeban was a very sweet and gentle little thing, and she did not hesitate to pet him. She tried to make him understand this and that, and he seemed to have a very quick intelligence. Why should he not one day possess a soul? This idea occurred to her as she was walking, on one occasion, in the shrubbery. Could she not give back to him the soul of which he had been deprived, could she not teach him the alphabet? If she showed him a certain letter and then pointed to some object with which he was familiar could he not by degrees be made acquainted with the world?

Saliha made the experiment. She found it a very pleasant recreation, for life in the seraglio is extremely monotonous.

We have heard that prisoners in their dungeons have even taught spiders to dance at the sound of music (and the seraglio as a place of detention is scarcely more exhilarating than a dungeon). Why should not the deaf and dumb boy prove as apt as a spider? At her first essay, Saliha was amazed to see how the soul of the bizeban began to expand. He grasped anything in a moment. Once shown the alphabet he could afterwards trace out each letter on the ground. Once shown the name of a certain article he never forgot it. This success encouraged Saliha to further attempts. Would it not be possible to speak to the bizeban? But how could the speaking be done so that no beholder comprehended it? Ah! with the hands! The human hand has five fingers, and their variety of motion, as they open and shut, is such that the entire alphabet might thereby be distinctly expressed. Saliha determined to teach the boy to converse with her by means of his fingers; and the success of her experiments exceeded her expectations. He quickly learned the secret signs. It was delightful to Saliha; and she determined to get amusement out of it too. She would extract from the bizeban secrets concerning her brother which he thought no one living knew, and then she would tease this relative by pretending that she had discovered them through the mystic words of the Cabala. Who could ever dream of suspecting a bizeban who was deaf and dumb?

After the death of Osman, Prince Mustapha ascended the throne. His youthful gaiety now quickly fled—his shoulders began to bend beneath the weight of the Turkish Empire, which was then already in a tottering condition, with enemies on every side.

At that time the country possessed a great statesman in the person of Raghib Pasha, whose potent hand had preserved the empire from destruction. It was he who crushed the forces of the rebellious Egyptian princes and laid the province at the feet of the Padishah. Raghib was not only a hero in war, he was also a famous poet and the greatest scholar in the land. Historians describe him, in his character of statesman, as a "leader of leaders," szad rul vezir, and in that of writer as the "Prince of Roumelian poets". (Sultani suari Rum). In his gigantic work entitled Zezinet Olulum ("Ship of Knowledge") all the legends are collected which had lain scattered about the Arab plains. It was he who founded the splendid library which bears his name.

At the time of which we now write, Saliha was in the very springtide of her beauty—like the lotus-flower which opens its petals before the dew of dawn. Sultan Mustapha could not have given Raghib Pasha a greater reward than by bestowing upon him the hand of his lovely sister; and as to whether he inspired her with real affection I need only say that he was fifty-nine when he married her and that she loved him so much that when he died her mind became deranged.

Raghib Pasha ruled not only over the Mussulmans but also over the ruler of the Mussulmans, for he had divined the Sultan's thoughts—yes, his innermost thoughts.

It was the Sultan's habit not to retire at night to his bedchamber until he had recorded, in a voluminous diary, all the events of the day and his impressions concerning them. This book he habitually kept in the secrecy of his own room, and the bizeban watched over it until the morning. To whom would it ever have occurred that the deaf and dumb from birth could read, or that he could communicate the written lines to some one else? In the room where this diary was kept there was a little window which opened into the khazoda, the Sultan's place of worship. But it was so shut off from view by various corridors as to be only visible from the seraglio. Every evening, just as the Sultan was leaving his apartments in order to go and say his final prayers in this sanctuary, the murzims were accustomed to strike seven times with a hammer a bell without a tongue. Then the Imam who stood before the altar would say: "Ahamdu lillahi Rabbil alemum" ("Grace descends from Heaven, which rules over all"). Thereupon the congregation would fall on their faces. They remained prostrate until the Sultan reached the door; when the Imam would exclaim: Allehú ekber! ("The Lord is powerful"), and all present rose to their feet. During the period of prostration a secret hand would be stretched out from the little window we have mentioned, and would make all kinds of signs. No one noticed this hand, except Saliha, who carefully watched its mysterious movements whilst she was upon her knees. From these signs she knew everything that the Sultan had that day recorded in his diary; and the very same night she would whisper the information to her husband.

Raghib Pasha was a wise man, who knew how to keep such information secret. He thereby learned who his enemies were and managed to clear them out of his way. He got to know the wishes of the Sultan and could long before anticipate them. Everything he did was done in the name of the Sultan: the pomp and glory which he himself achieved he allowed people to ascribe to his Sovereign, and he even made Mustapha imagine that he ruled; whereas the feeble-hearted monarch was a mere puppet in the hands of his skilful Grand Vizier.

In his poems Raghib extolled the Sultan for his mighty and politic deeds—eulogised him for inspecting the navy and the military magazines, for increasing the nation's revenue by 6,000,000 piastres, and doing other things which Raghib himself had in fact done on his own account.

Throughout Turkey, throughout Europe, it was known well enough that, not the Sultan, but his Minister, ruled at Stamboul; it was only Mustapha who did not know it.

One day Raghib's enemies, Hamil Pasha, Bahir Mustapha, and Mohamed Emin, who were jealous of the Minister's great power, said to the Sultan:

"This man only calls you Sultan in mockery. He does everything without you, just as if the State were his. He has just concluded, without your knowledge, an alliance with the ruler of one of the infidel empires—an alliance which, although it may prove the destruction of other unfaithful nations, he should never have dared to make before obtaining the consent of his monarch, in whose presence he is nothing but dust." It was Frederick the Great, King of Prussia, who, believing in the wisdom of the distinguished Minister, had invited his alliance, and the documents ratifying it had already been signed. Had that alliance been allowed to continue, perhaps the crescent of Turkey would have risen again. But the heart of Mustapha had been perturbed by these malicious whisperings. When the traitors had left him he said nothing, but simply ordered his bizeban to bring him his diary, wherein he proceeded to record his impressions of the day. Then, shutting the book and giving it to the bizeban, he went to evening prayers. On this occasion the hand appeared at the little window and made certain signs which Saliha watched intently. They said: "Escape, Raghib. The Sultan knows of your letter to the Prussian king. To-morrow your head will be cut off and your documents confiscated."

The Sultan returned from his profound devotions with a lightened heart. No one, he said to himself, knew his secret, and to-morrow morning he would send his executioner to fetch him Raghib's head. Yes, he longed to possess that head ignominiously severed from its trunk.

But when the executioner reached the Grand Vizier's residence, he found there his dead body, which could no longer be killed. On his table lay a letter addressed to the Sultan and enclosed in a velvet envelope. It was taken to the Sovereign with the news that the Minister had been found dead. The letter ran thus:

The Sultan was paralysed with wonder and fear. How could that secret, which had been locked up only in his own heart, have been divined by Raghib? First he accused the dsins (Christian prophets), then the Hindoo soothsayers, then the interpreters of dreams—then the very pen with which he had written. How could he dream that the deaf and dumb could speak?

When Mustapha endeavoured to further the alliance with the King of Prussia, this great ruler of the infidels replied that there had until recently been one wise man in Turkey, but that he did not now propose to do business with fools. This was a bitter humiliation to the Sultan—to think that his late slave could have procured an alliance which was contemptuously refused to the King of Kings!

Mustapha frequently lamented the loss of Raghib, and was constantly tortured by the mystery whereby the secret of his heart had been penetrated. After the Grand Vizier's death the bizeban ceased to communicate to Saliha the secrets of the Sultan. He had no longer any motive to do so.

First came Hamil, who only, however, remained Grand Vizier for six months, when he was executed for his negligence; and chroniclers relate of him that he let the empire go as it pleased, doing it neither good nor harm. Then followed the head of Bahir Mustapha. It was cut off for his barbarity. The third was Mohamed Emin, whom the Sultan beheaded for cowardice on the battlefield. Mustapha shed tears over the loss of his three Grand Viziers—but not on their personal account, for he had never forgotten Raghib, who was so wise, brave, and noble; and whenever he beheaded one of his Grand Viziers he would always think of the unfortunate Raghib.

The bizeban laughed within himself; for the deaf and dumb can laugh when they are alone. His secret no one ever knew.

THE MOONLIGHT SOMNAMBULIST

It was quite natural that the young men from round and about should be helplessly in love with her and willing to hazard life itself in the hope of winning such a prize. But many as were the rival suitors, they all at last had to give way to one upon whom Etelka bestowed her preference, and that preference could not be divided either in two or more parts. As a matter of fact no objection could have been made against her choice, for it fell upon such a man as is generally regarded as the ideal of a woman's dreams. He was of fine stature, tall, well-proportioned, no longer young, it is true, but far from his decline. He was a retired major, and bore himself with a faultless military carriage. His manners were polished, his education extensive, and his wit by no means inferior. He was good-hearted, patriotic, and keen in business matters; he did not gamble, neither did he run into debt—in fact, from top to toe, you could not find a fault in him.

Of course the various competitors for the hand of Etelka had to bow before her decision, they could not help themselves; but one of them, in his fierce dissatisfaction, vowed inwardly that he would not yield the prize so easily. This rival was a young man who fancied that Etelka had regarded him with a degree of favour which was only second to that which she had bestowed on the victorious Major.

But Mogyorôdy, the malcontent in question, knew that Major Duránczy was very handy with rapier and pistol and did not care to be trifled with. He therefore determined to use diplomacy. He paid a friendly sort of visit to the father of Etelka, and spent the evening with him. Pozdordy had a pretty good suspicion as to why the visitor had come.

In due course the conversation turned upon Duránczy.

"A very nice fellow indeed, isn't he?" said the farmer.

"Oh, yes," replied Mogyorôdy, who at the same time made a grimace which betrayed his real opinion.

The farmer, who was evidently uneasy at the young man's obvious jealousy, exclaimed:

"But you have nothing to say against him?"

"Oh, no, nothing in the world!"

"But you have something on your mind. It is true he's not so youthful as you, but he is not yet old."

"Oh, no, he's in the prime of life."

"Do you wish to imply that there is anything against his past?"

"No; for who amongst us has not got a past?"

"Perhaps you wish to make out that he is only marrying Etelka for her money?"

"By no means."

"Do you accuse him of being a gambler?"

"He never touches cards."

"A spendthrift?"

"He is the very reverse—stares on both sides of every halfpenny before he parts with it."

"Do you think him lazy?"

"No, a model of plodding industry."

"Then what is amiss with his character?"

"It is perfect—almost monotonously so; but he has one peculiarity with which you ought to be made acquainted if you are going to marry your daughter to him."

"What is that?"

"Well, if you want to know, he's a lunar somnambulist—when the moon is at the full he rises at night from his bed, and, with open eyes, walks about the house in a dream, muttering all kinds of extraordinary things. If swords or pistols were then within his reach he would probably wound or kill any one, and I shouldn't like to see your daughter murdered in one of these moonlight perambulations."

"Oh, that is nonsense. I will believe no tale of that kind."

"Do as you please. I have discharged my duty, and told you. Now, good-night."

But after Mogyorôdy had departed, the farmer, although he had pretended to be unconcerned, said to himself:

"This might possibly be true; I must investigate the matter further before the marriage takes place."

His mind being very uneasy, he determined to invite Duránczy to his house on the next occasion, when the moon would be at its full; and when the night in question arrived he entertained the Major at his farm with all the outward demonstration of confidence and friendship.

It so happened that during the evening Mogyorôdy looked in, for although a rejected lover, he was still a recognised visitor, owing to business and family connections with the farmer.

Pozdordy, albeit that he was somewhat alarmed at the appearance of his rival, politely welcomed him, and was relieved to notice, as his two guests conversed together, that the old jealousy seemed to have quite disappeared, and that Mogyorôdy evinced towards the Major every symptom of good fellowship.

The wine circulated freely, and the night wore pleasantly away, until the clock reminded Pozdordy that there was a limit to every festivity. He had already intended to press Duránczy to sleep with him; but, as it was already late, he felt he could not do less than extend the invitation to Mogyorôdy. Wishing, however, to have the alleged somnambulist under his inspection, he assigned to the Major a spare bed in his own dormitory, and gave Mogyorôdy a separate room.

In due course, both host and guests retired. The farmer, as soon as he was between the sheets, lit a massive long-stemmed pipe, and began to smoke, keeping his eye upon Duránczy.

The moonlight was streaming in upon the Major's pillow. It looked weird. The farmer watched Duránczy as he lay prostrate—watched and watched until he himself dozed off into an involuntary slumber.

Presently he was awoke by a noise. In the moonlight he perceived a figure, robed in a night-shirt. Ah! the Major, who seemed to be gazing around him with an air of mysterious inquiry. Then, step by step, with great circumspection, he advanced towards the farmer's bedside. Pozdordy held his breath. "Yes," he said to himself, "this man is a lunar somnambulist!"

Upon tiptoe the figure now went nearer and nearer to the farmer's couch. Pozdordy, in breathless expectation, grasped his heavy long-stemmed pipe—the only weapon of self-defence within arm's length—and just as the somnambulist was reaching towards an antique and richly inlaid sword, suspended high up against the wall, he dealt him a blow, so terrific as to produce a howl from the apparition. The farmer leaped out of bed, and, to protect his own life, was proceeding to half-strangle the sleepwalker, when, to his astonishment, he saw that it was not the Major.

"Who are you?" he exclaimed.

There was no answer. The farmer looked towards the Major's bed—there, in the moonlight, lay the warrior, who was just beginning to be roused from sleep by the noise of the scuffle, and who dreamily exclaimed, "What the devil?"

Pozdordy released his hold of the neck of this unknown man, who hastily escaped from the room; and the report goes that Mogyorôdy travelled home at 2 A.M. in his night-shirt. Anyhow, after hiding under the Major's bed in order to make him out to be a somnambulist, he never again dared to put his nose into Pozdordy's household; and the gallant soldier is to-day in peaceful possession of the beautiful Etelka.

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