* * * * *

“Lahnet be Shitan!  Curses on the devil!” said Mustapha, taking his pipe out of his mouth and spitting.

“Wallah Thaib!  It is well said,” replied the pacha.

* * * * *

I was so convinced that it was nothing of this world, that, as soon as I could recover my legs, I made a blow at him with my attaghan, fully expecting that he would disappear in a flame of fire at the touch of a true believer; but, on the contrary, he had also recovered his legs, and with a large cane with a gold top on it, he parried my cut, and then saluted me with such a blow on my head, that I again fell down in the mud, quite insensible.  When I recovered, I found myself on a mat in an outhouse, and attended by my opponent, who was plastering up my head.  “It is nothing,” said he, as he bound up my head; but I suffered so much pain, and felt so weak from loss of blood, that in spite of his assertions, I very much doubted the fact.  Shall I describe this son of Jehanum?  And when I do so, will not your highness doubt the fact?  Be chesm, upon my head be it, if I lie.  He was less than a man, for he had no beard; he had no turban, but a piece of net-work, covered with the hair of other men in their tombs, which he sprinkled with the flour from the baker’s, every morning, to feed his brain.  He wore round his neck a piece of linen, tight as a bowstring, to prevent his head being taken off by any devout true believer, as he walked through the street.  His dress was of the colour of hell, black, and bound closely to his body, yet must he have been a great man in his own country, for he was evidently a pacha of two tails, which were hanging behind him.  He was a dreadful man to look upon, and feared nothing; he walked into the house of pestilence—­he handled those whom Allah had visited with the plague—­he went to the bed, and the sick rose and walked.  He warred with destiny; and no man could say what was his fate until the Hakim had decided.  He held in his hand the key of the portal, which opened into the regions of death; and—­what can I say more?—­he said live, and the believer lived; he said die, and the houris received him into Paradise.

* * * * *

“A yesedi! a worshipper of the devil,” exclaimed Mustapha.

“May he and his father’s grave be eternally defiled!” responded the pacha.

* * * * *

I remained a fortnight under the Hakim’s hands before I was well enough to walk about; and when I had reflected, I doubted whether it would not be wiser to embrace a more peaceful profession.  The Hakim spoke our language well, and one day said to me, “Thou art more fit to cure than to give wounds.  Thou shalt assist me, for he who is now with me will not remain.”  I consented, and putting on a more peaceful garb, continued many months with the Frank physician, travelling everywhere, but seldom remaining