“Madman!” exclaimed the elder chaouse, after Omar and Hassan had left, “you have put the bow-string round our necks as well as your own.”
“True,” answered Baba, with a bland smile, “and if we would not have it drawn tight, we must e’en obey the commands of Omar the Dey.”
“I suppose we must,” returned the chaouse gloomily; “but it is hard enough to be compelled to spend our days in strangling, thrashing, burning, beheading, flaying, and tormenting other men, without the addition of having our own necks put in jeopardy.”
The injustice attaching to themselves and their office seemed to weigh heavily for some time on the minds of both the executioners, notwithstanding the sallies and remonstrances of Hadji Baba, but before reaching the palace they had gone through the not difficult process—to a Turk—of setting the whole matter down to the decrees of Fate, and washing their hands of all guilt.
That evening, as the hour for action drew nigh, Hadji Baba and his colleagues began to grow rather uneasy—all the more so that the Dey was in a particularly bad humour.
Being an ignorant and uneducated man, he had found the work of gathering up the reins of government a very difficult task, notwithstanding the boldness of his heart and the determination of his will. True, he had simplified several knotty matters by bastinadoing and cutting off the heads of all concerned, but this left a multitude of matters which could not be disposed of in that summary fashion.
Among other things, he had been thwarted in his resolution to get possession of Angela Diego, whom he intended to have made a slave of the palace. Finding that she had taken refuge with the British consul at his country house, he sent a peremptory order to have the girl returned immediately, and, pending the result of that order, had locked Bacri up in a dungeon, with threats of the bastinado, and even death, in the event of any difficulty being thrown in the way.
After this he called for his coffee and pipe, his tame gazelle, chief executioners, and story-teller, resolving to throw the cares of state aside for the night and enjoy himself.
It was nearly eight o’clock when this order was given, to the consternation of Hadji Baba and his confederates, who were thus deprived of the power of rendering, in the guard-room, any assistance to the insurrectionists. There was, however, no alternative,—obedience was imperative.
“Sit down,” said the Dey to the unfortunate jester, when he entered the presence, limping with much apparent difficulty. “We will extend clemency to thee, in the hope that thou wilt redeem thy character. I am fond of marvellous stories. Thou mayest sit on that carpet. Now, look behind thee.”
Hadji Baba obeyed, and observed his two friends standing mute and motionless, like statues, ready at a moment’s notice to do their master’s bidding.
“Knowest thou these men?” asked the Dey.
“Your highness’s slave knows them but too well,” replied Baba, with a well-feigned shudder, which changed into a real one on his observing that a gorgeous time-piece opposite pointed to the hour of eight.
“Proceed, then, and acquit thee well, else thou shalt come to know them still better ere long.”
Thus admonished, the story-teller cleared his throat, wished intensely for a draught of water, and taxed his fertile brain to the uttermost. At last under a feeling of absolute desperation, he began—
“Once upon a time—”
The Dey nodded, as though he thought that not a bad beginning.
“Once upon a time,” continued Baba, and then, checking himself—“Your highness wishes a very marvellous story, I believe?”
“Yes, very marvellous,” said the Dey, not quite pleased with the interruption.
“Your highness shall have it—a very marvellous story, and, what is more, it shall be a true story.”
Hadji Baba said this with so much energy and fire that the Dey again nodded his approval, and sent two thin clouds of tobacco-smoke through his nostrils, as he patted the gazelle which crouched at his feet, resting its head on his knee, and gazing affectionately at the tyrant with its magnificent eyes.
“Once upon a time,” resumed the story-teller with sustained vigour and fluency, as he glanced at the clock, “there was a poor shoemaker who dwelt in a certain town, and was noted among his friends for his powers of song. One day the Sultan of the country chanced to hear of this man’s talent, and sent for him to the palace. He was so pleased with him that he made him his chief musician. This shoemaker possessed magical gifts.”
“Villain!” exclaimed the Dey, “didst thou not say that the story should be a true one? How can that be, when thou speakest of gifts which do not and never did exist?”
“Your highness’s slave,” replied Baba, “refers to those powers of legerdemain, or pretended magic, with which some men are gifted.”
“Go on,” returned the Dey.
“Well, one day the shoemaker offered to amuse the Sultan by mesmerising his guards.”
“Mesmerising!” interrupted the Dey, “what is that?”
“Throwing them into a sleep, your highness, against their will.”
“Well?”
“Well, the Sultan did not believe him, so he said, ‘If thou shalt put these guards into sleep against their wills, I will give thee my daughter in marriage.’ The shoemaker was well pleased to hear this, for the Sultan’s daughter was virtuous and very beautiful. So he begged the Sultan to order in his guards, which he did. Drawing them up in a line, the man began at the first, and made the passes or signs which are necessary to throw men into the mesmeric state. The first man winked very much, and smiled a little, but did not fall asleep.
“‘Ha!’ cried the Sultan, on seeing this, ‘thou art deceiving me, it seems!’
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