I replied that I had bathed that morning, and did not intend to bathe again—­as for the dresses and jewels, I did not require them, and that I was ready to receive my lord the sultan, if he pleased to come.  The Kislar Aga opened his eyes with astonishment at my presumption, but not venturing to use force to one who, in his opinion, would become the favourite, he returned to the sultan, reporting to him what had passed.  The sultan, as I expected, was more amused at the novelty than affronted at the want of respect.  “Be it so,” replied he; “this Georgian must have a good opinion of her own charms.”

In the evening the sultan made his appearance, and I prostrated myself at his feet, for I did not wish to proceed too far at once.  He raised me up and appeared delighted.

“You are right, Zara,” said he; “no jewels or dress could add to the splendour of your beauty.”

“Pardon me, O gracious lord,” replied I, “but if thy slave is to please thee, may it be by her natural charms alone.  If I have the honour to continue in thy favour, let me adorn myself with those jewels which ought to decorate the chosen of her master—­but as a candidate I have rejected them, for who knows but in a few days I may be deserted for one more worthy of your preference?”

The sultan was delighted at my apology, and I certainly was pleased with him.  He was then about forty years of age, very handsome and well made; but I was still more gratified to find that my conversation amused him so much that he remained with me for many hours after his usual time for retiring.  This gave promise of an ascendancy which might survive personal charms.  But not to detain your highness, I will at once state, the sultan soon thought but of me.  Not only my personal attractions, but my infinite variety, which appeared natural, but was generally planned and sketched out previous to his visits, won so entirely upon him, that so far from being tired, his passion, I may say his love, for me was every day increased.

* * * * *

“Well, it may be all true,” observed the pacha, looking at the wrinkled and hideous object before him.  “What do you say, Mustapha?”

“O pacha! we know not yet her history.  The mother of your slave, as I have heard from my father, was once most beautiful.  She is still in our harem, and pooh,” said Mustapha, spitting, as if in abhorrence.

“Right, good vizier—­right—­recollect, pacha, what I have said:  time has been.”  The pacha nodded, and the old woman proceeded.

* * * * *