I ought to have observed to your sublimity, that the sect of dervishes of which I had become a member, were then designated by the name of howling dervishes; all our religion consisted in howling like jackals or hyenas, with all our might, until we fell down in real or pretended convulsions.  My howl was considered as the most appalling and unearthly that was ever heard, and, of course, my sanctity was increased in proportion.  We were on our way to Scutari, where was our real place of residence, and only lodged here and there on our journey to fleece those who were piously disposed.  I had not joined more than ten days when they continued their route, and after a week of very profitable travelling, passed through Constantinople, crossed the Bosphorus, and regained their place of domiciliation, and were received with great joy by the inhabitants, to whom the old chief and many others of our troop were well known.

Your sublime highness must be aware that the dervishes are not only consulted by, but often become the bankers of, the inhabitants, who intrust them with the care of their money.  My old chief (whose name I should have mentioned before was Ulu-bibi) held large sums in trust for many of the people with whom he was acquainted; but his avarice inducing him to lend the money out on usury, it was very difficult to recover it when it was desired, although it was always religiously paid back.  I had not been many months at Scutari, before I found myself in high favour, from my superior howling and the duration of my convulsions.  But during this state, which by habit soon became spasmodic, continuing until the vital functions were almost extinct, the mind was as active as ever, and I lay immersed in a sea of doubt which was most painful.  In my state of exhaustion I doubted everything.  I doubted if my convulsions were convulsions or only feigned; I doubted if I was asleep or awake; I doubted whether I was in a trance, or in another world, or dead, or——­

* * * * *

“Friend Hudusi,” interrupted Mustapha, “we want the facts of your story, and not your doubts.  Say I not well, your highness?  What is all this but bosh?—­nothing.”

“It is well said,” replied the pacha.

“Sometimes I thought that I had seized possession of a fact, but it slipped through my fingers like the tail of an eel.”

“Let us have the facts, which did not escape thee, friend, and let the mists of doubt be cleared away before the glory of the pacha,” replied Mustapha.

One day I was sitting in the warmth of the sun, by the tomb of a true believer, when an old woman accosted me.  “You are welcome,” said I.

“Is your humour good?” said she.

“It is good,” replied I.

She sat down by me, and after a quarter of an hour she continued:  “God is great,” said she.

“And Mahomet is his Prophet,” replied I.  “In the name of Allah, what do you wish?”