In which Soles are beaten and Men are sold—With Plots and Counterplots.  
Comfortably ensconced in the palace of the Deys—elected by a majority of his comrades—the Aga Hamet proceeded to enjoy his high position, and to exercise the authority of ruler of the pirate city.
 
The day after his ascension of what we may call the dangerous throne, he sent for Hadji Baba the story-teller.
 
“Thou art a witty fellow, it seems?” said the Dey, when Baba made his appearance.
 
“So it has been said of me, and so I once thought,” replied the jester humbly; “but I have come to doubt the worth of my own wit, since it has led me to dwell in a palace.”
 
“How so, knave? What mean you?”
 
“In truth, I know not,” replied Baba. “My wit is scarce sufficient to make my meaning plain even to myself. Only I feel that the brilliancy of the wit of those who dwell in palaces is too much for me. ’Twere better, methinks, if I had remained on my shoemaker’s bench.”
 
“’Twere indeed better for thee to have done so, good fellow, if thou canst say nothing better than that,” replied Hamet angrily, for he was a stupid as well as an ambitious man. “Let’s have something better from thee, else the bastinado shall drive sense from thy heels into thy head.”
 
“Nay, then, it is hard,” returned Baba, with a smile, “to be asked to talk sense when I was hired by thy late master—”
 
“My late master!” roared the Dey.
 
“Surely I said ‘my late master,’ did I not?” returned Hadji Baba, rubbing his forehead as if he were confused—as, in truth, the poor fellow was, by the terrible scenes that had lately been enacted in the palace. “As I meant to say, then,—it is hard for me to talk sense when my late master hired me expressly to talk nonsense.”
 
“H’m, yes, very true,” replied the Dey, looking wise. “Let me, then, hear some of thy nonsense.”
 
“Ah, your highness, that is easily done,” said Baba, with sudden animation. “What shall be the subject of my discourse?—the affairs of state?”
 
The Dey nodded.
 
“Let me, then, make a broad statement of a nonsensical kind, which, in its particular applications may be said to be endless. A throne won by treachery, violence, and bloodshed cannot stand long in—”
 
“Villain!” shouted the Dey.
 
“Nay, I do but jest,” said Baba, with a look of simplicity.
 
“Jest or no jest, thou shalt smart for it,” cried the Dey, whose anger had been greatly roused.—“Ho! seize him and give him the bastinado, and afterwards bring him hither again.”
 
Two chaouses, who were in attendance in a neighbouring room, at once entered, and, seizing the unfortunate story-teller, hurried him down to an apartment in the palace which was reserved for punishments of various kinds, including strangulation. Here they stripped off Baba’s embroidered shoes and white hose.
 
“We have long been fellow-servants under this roof,” said Hadji Baba, as they were about to begin.
 
“That is true,” replied one of the chaouses sternly.
 
“I shall be forgiven, and depend on it thou shalt not be forgotten,” said Baba quietly.
 
The executioner, who knew that the story-teller had been a man of influence and power in the previous reign, hesitated.
 
“We have our orders, Hadji Baba,” said he, remonstratively, “and you know that it is as much as our lives are worth to fail in our obedience.”
 
“I bid you not to fail in the performance of your duty, but I counsel you to lay on lightly,” returned the jester, with a grim smile.
 
“And how if the Dey should expect to hear thy cries, and afterwards to see thee limp into his presence?” asked the man in a tone of indecision.
 
“Depend on’t he shall both see and hear,” exclaimed Baba, with a laugh. “Thinkest thou that my head is not equal to the saving of my feet? Lay on lightly, so that there may be somewhat to show; but see thou dost not over-do it. I will engage to let the tyrant hear on the deafest side of his head, and will limp into his presence with most unfeigned sincerity.”
 
“Well, then, I begin,” said the man, applying a few strokes with a lithe rod to the soles of the jester’s feet.
 
Baba was true to his word. He suddenly gave vent to a yell so appalling that the very executioner, accustomed though he was to such sounds, quailed for a moment, and said anxiously—
 
“Did I hit you too hard?”
 
“Hard!” echoed Baba, mingling a roar of laughter with his next yell. “Fear not, good comrade; go on, do thy duty—ha! ha!—ho–o–o! Stop! Why, it is worse than I had imagined,” he added, as the man delivered a cut that was rather sharp. “But go on,” cried Hadji Baba, with another yell; “I must have something to show, and he shall smart for it.”
 
He followed up this remark with a series of amateur shrieks and howls so terrible that the hardened chaouses, being accustomed only to the genuine display of suffering, were overcome, and entreated him to desist.
 
The excitement of the exercise, the conflict of varied feelings, the smarting of his soles, the indignation of his soul, and the absurdity of the deception, had such an effect on Hadji Baba’s spirit, that he experienced no difficulty whatever in limping like a confirmed cripple, and trembling like an aspen leaf when led into the presence of the tyrant.
 
“Ha!” exclaimed the Dey, “I think I have cured thee. Thou wilt talk no more nonsense, I warrant.”
 
“Not a word, your highness, not a syllable,” exclaimed the jester, falling on his knees, as the executioners retired. “Even though your highness were to hold the reins of power with a hand of gentleness and benignity, which I doubt not you will, I would not repeat such nonsense for the world.”
 
“Gentleness and benignity,” laughed the Dey, catching at the words, and paying little regard to what followed; “truly that were a novel feature in my character, as thou knowest well.—Now, listen, rascal: as thy feet are in good walking trim, I have an errand for thee. Go, tell Sidi Hassan that I want him, and see thou find him quickly, else another beating awaits thee.”
 
“Your highness shall be obeyed,” said the jester, with a profound obeisance, as he turned and limped out of the room.
 
Sidi Hassan had left the service of the British consul, without leave, just before the insurrection, and was seated in his own town mansion, sipping a cup of coffee, and conversing with Rais Ali, when the message reached him.
 
“Thou art but a cowardly fellow, a weak villain after all,” said Hassan to some remark of the interpreter. “The man who plays fast and loose is sure to be brought low sooner or later. Why not leave the British consul’s service now that a chance offers? It will be to thy advantage, for I can speak a good word for thee with the new Dey.”
 
“Because,” said Rais Ali anxiously, “although I have not a sensitive conscience, I cannot prevail on myself to betray my old master.”
 
“Very good,” said Hassan; “continue to vacillate until thy head is shaken off. Adieu. I must not keep his highness waiting.”
 
So saying, he hastened to the palace, congratulating himself on the expected fulfilment of the promises which the late Aga Hamet had so lavishly made to him.
 
Like many other sycophants, Sidi Hassan had mistaken his man. The new Dey was well aware that Hassan was a turbulent, ambitious character, and thought that it would be best for his own interests to appoint him governor of a distant province of his dominions. Like many other coarse, though energetic, characters, Hamet also mistook his man. He did not know that Hassan would be content with nothing short of the position of second in command. When, therefore, he handed him, with many compliments, the paper containing his commission to the governorship of the province alluded to, he was greatly surprised to behold his former friend fly into a violent passion, tear the paper to pieces, and fling it on the ground, as he turned on his heel and left the room abruptly.
 
So suddenly and vigorously was the act done that Hamet’s wonted coolness failed him for a moment, and Hassan had passed out into the street before he gave orders, in a voice of thunder, to have him arrested and brought back.
 
There is no doubt that in his present temper the Dey would have had his late colleague strangled on the spot, but, fortunately for himself, Sidi Hassan, instead of returning to his own house, went straight to the Marina, without having any definite object in view, save that he thirsted for vengeance, and meant to have it if possible.
 
On his way down he met the sapient interpreter, Blindi Bobi.
 
“Well, Bobi,” he said, making an effort to look calm, “any probability of a rising among the slaves?”
 
“Not much,” replied Bobi, in Turkish, shaking his head; “slaves don’t like to have their heads cut off and their skin torn away in bits.”
 
“True!” returned Hassan, smiling grimly. “Do you know where Sidi Omar is?”
 
“There,” said Blindi Bobi in reply, pointing to the individual in question, and sidling rapidly away.
 
“Something ails you, methinks,” said Omar, with a keen glance, as Hassan approached.
 
“Ay, the new Dey ails me,” returned Hassan, with a feeling of desperation, for he felt that he was committing himself in thus speaking to one whom he knew to be his enemy—but anger often leads men into unwise speech.
&nbs............