“The ways of the infidel.” said the little Sultan, calmly resuming his pipe, “are beyond the compass of the true intelligence of the Faithful.  Yet I thought it was so even as here.  I had read in your newspapers that after your last election your ministers were buried alive—­buried under a landslide, was it not?  We thought it—­here in Turkey—­a noble fate for them.”

“They crawled out,” I said.

“Ishmillah!” ejaculated Abdul.  “But go, Toomuch.  And listen, thou also—­for in spite of all thou hast served me well—­shalt have a bowstring.”

“Oh, master, master,” cried Toomuch, falling on his knees in gratitude and clutching the sole of Abdul’s slipper.  “It is too kind!”

“Nay, nay,” said the Sultan.  “Thou hast deserved it.  And I will go further.  This stranger, too, my governess, this professor, bring also for the professor a bowstring, and a two-bladed knife!  All Canada shall rejoice to hear of it.  The students shall leap up like young lambs at the honour that will be done.  Bring the knife, Toomuch; bring the knife!”

“Abdul,” I said, “Abdul, this is too much.  I refuse.  I am not fit.  The honour is too great.”

“Not so,” said Abdul.  “I am still Sultan.  I insist upon it.  For, listen, I have long penetrated your disguise and your kind design.  I saw it from the first.  You knew all and came to die with me.  It was kindly meant.  But you shall die no common death; yours shall be the honour of the double knife—­let it be extra sharp, Toomuch—­and the bowstring.”

“Abdul,” I urged, “it cannot be.  You forget.  I have an appointment to be thrown into the Bosphorus.”

“The death of a dog!  Never!” cried Abdul.  “My will is still law.  Toomuch, kill him on the spot.  Hit him with the stool, throw the coffee at him—­”

But at this moment there were heard loud cries and shouting as in tones of great gladness, in the outer hall of the palace, doors swinging to and fro and the sound of many running feet.  One heard above all the call, “It has come!  It has come!”

The Sultan looked up quickly.

“Toomuch,” he said eagerly and anxiously, “quick, see what it is.  Hurry! hurry!  Haste!  Do not stay on ceremony.  Drink a cup of coffee, give me five cents—­fifty cents, anything—­and take leave and see what it is.”

But before Toomuch could reply, a turbaned attendant had already burst in through the door unannounced and thrown himself at Abdul’s feet.

“Master!  Master!” he cried.  “It is here.  It has come.”  As he spoke he held out in one hand a huge envelope, heavy with seals.  I could detect in great letters stamped across it the words, WASHINGTON and OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY OF STATE.

Abdul seized and opened the envelope with trembling hands.

“It is it!” he cried.  “It is sent by Smith Pasha, Minister under the Peace of Heaven of the United States.  It is the Intervention.  I am saved.”